I was envious, in my youth,
of the boys with the thin hair
that cooperated like a Quaker child,
submissive.
I have been envious of the shallow people
who seem to know joys
that to me
are as far away as an understanding
of the universe.
I have watched the soulless men
who work and count
days and dollars
and I have wanted to understand how
so that I could pretend to like it, too.
I have lived the narrative that is me,
a crazy man saddled on a zebra
riding in the brush next to the highway
sneaking through fences,
staring at your discarded washing machines,
wondering where the cars are going.
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