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I am a Replica,
traversing through the busy
Metro system at 5 p.m.
        The time of day Pound’s imagery
        comes to the forethought. I walk down,
the marble encrusted steps, into a cart
that will transport me elsewhere.
I’m not myself today, I’m never myself.
I don’t know what it means to be myself;
I’ve forgotten how to be anything but a Copy
of society’s Reproductions.
Aldous Huxley wrote about the man
I wanted to strive to emulate.
But that was abstract, on some distant reservation,
in a place that permits nothing other then Duplicates.
Sometimes I hark back, and speculate what Whitman
would say about this travesty. I’m sure I’ve disappointed
the rebellious Blake, but did he ever have:
Despair—a plague that seeps through my pores,
burrowing its way deep into my Platonic blueprint.
     This creature fornicates with my innards, until I’m nothing more then a Facsimile of itself.
In the solar eruptions of my thoughts
there are days I fly back and regain a sapling seed
to grow out of the abyss that Plath feigned fear of—oh that adorable oven.
Then I dredge up the putrid truth,
          that I’m nothing but an Imitation.

13 Jul 07

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(1 more poem by this author)

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