22nd Century Blues Conundrum #3

Georges Cunningham



Sometimes I think

about a bowel movement

and the intricacies involved

with finding the door to a

room filled with receptacles

for my refuse.


Other times I think

about the air that surrounds me

full of particulate matter

infiltrating my lungs,

my heart, my spleen, my colon,

my brain, my inner ear canal,

my vas deferens, and my superior vena cava,

slipping post-socialist doctrines to

my capillaries in an ultimate

form of subversion from

the inside.


Yet still I think,

about more things I think about

and I continually find

more hairs on the back of my neck

than on my head or my nose

(or my horse, but that

is another tome


which doesn't seem out of place

if you consider

another galaxy spinning

on the same atomic frequency

as the nerve gas

inside the home

on Fuller Street.


At times I think

that I think

but other times

I can't think

about the times I think

or don't think

about the times

I think

or don't think

about time.



I have a bowel movement.