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Reverse History (Amy Discovers Dick)

1978. I was looking for an instruction. I walked with the silent multitudes towards the sobering event, where I found Amy, at the podium, grasping every straw and shaking her hairy head in terror.

Like pillows in chaos.

Amy's speech cleverly inserted itself into the fields of the young cervix. As each point arrived, tiny holes among us bridged the gap between sterile and sterility.

Humbly I placed my feet a few inches further apart. Since I'm shallow I couldn't swallow. But, at the proper point, as marked in the separated passages of the text, I did go inside. The herd was waiting for me there--big girls lathered in their flesh, crushed with insider love. They married me with their lips. I named myself Amy, then made my own series of stirring announcements.

Walking. Walking out. Walking in. The Amy crowd just stood around, waiting for me. But I was waiting too. That's why I couldn't arrive. I was looking for something pointy yet blank, that wore a pout the way I wore the names of my friends. I needed to get into the interior, so I could look for this thing. Call it cervix. I waited forever. Finally I was told it had popped and disappeared, a sort of dispirited ghost.

That's when you rolled up, Dick. What a welcome distraction in our dusty reststop, with ironic scenery, a Valiant field. But you were so terribly sleepy. In fact you were dead! It was a belief system that attached sweetness to events.

It should have meant something to me. Punched, somehow.

We gathered in the cloakroom, laying you down in the center, in piles like rope. It turned out there were many ways to take off the outer coverings, and the kneecaps followed. O Dick, everything liquified after the first dark and sparkling moments. I was fabulously crushed.

Now I want to make a poem of it, this time with caricature. Dick, you be the big jaw, and I'll be minnows, pushed out between your ivory teeth, while Amy holds us in her thick romantic fur.

Then, getting off, daddy-o, finally getting off, your spreading butt reminds me of severe earth movements. Why so huge and cracked? The beyond, where you are. Where I wanted to go. That's why infested abstract landscapes have Dick written all over them.

Pure land of momentum, soaring from the hard kick towards the value of an image. Why does that sound wrong? Panorama foams while I'm asleep. I know the reason, I just don't want to think about it. Dick, wake up please. I'm really, really ready for you to wake up.