I am an American, am I not?
As my father was an alcoholic.
Mind your own business who outs a dead drunk.
And I dropped acid, ate 'shrooms and smoked pot.
Not until high school did I lose my way.
Americans don't care to see beyond
measureless borders, or my own backyard;
exactly how I found hyperbolic
reason as a cure for the ice blue funk
institutional psychosis unbarred
causing catastrophic morphic dismay,
ask not what it means, or why, at the pond,
noticeably lost, I observed a duck.
A duck with one webbed foot, and I felt shame,
much to my chagrin... I, too, felt crippled.
I don't believe he saw this as bad luck.
No, ducks just are or are not, they don't blame
obvious misfortunes on the tide-rippled
tragedies that occur once they forgot.
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