October 9, 1977 (I was 32)
What
the Story Became
The story became too
typical to articulate
Images became abstract
shapes, splashes of color
Vibrant camouflage for
empty space
Onlookers thought, I could
do that
And they despised anything
they themselves could do
The story became humor and
pain
camouflage for despair and
self-pity
The story became as
predictable as a print-out
an impulse between memory
banks
easy to forget, too typical
to articulate
The overfed body balloons
out of proportion
Onlookers saw themselves
reflected
it was a familiar story
with little to learn in the
revival
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