In a Maggot Nation

Now imagine there’s no song called Imagine,

I wonder even if you could.

Now imagine that your are John Lennon

in bed with three Yokos

and you have to answer questions from reporters

who think your name is aptly homonymical,

especially when it echoes in Strom Thurmond’s hollow heart.

Now imagine you cannot count to five

and you do not care

and no one makes fun of you for it.

Now imagine that plastic cups cost three dollars a gallon

and the gas stations start giving cigarettes away for free

and the water fountains in all the high schools in Tennessee

convert to Blood of Christ fountains overnight.

Now imagine being stuck in a crib with a lobster who is an expert on Miró

and you feel so ashamed at not having anything to add to the conversation

and you just curl up into a ball, suck on your thumb, and your mother

de-ascends, picks you up, drops you on your head for the fourth and final time,

and all is well in the detergent isle again.

Now imagine a place called the Detergent Isle.

Would you go there? What one book what you bring? Not counting your wife,

what one girlfriend from your past would you bring?

Be careful how you answer that question.

Therapy is expensive. So is divorce.