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What Would Freud Say?

Written by: Bob Hicok | Biography
 Wasn't on purpose that I drilled 
through my finger or the nurse 
laughed.
She apologized three times and gave me a shot of something that was a lusher apology.
The person who drove me home said my smile was a smeared totem that followed his body that night as it arced over a cliff in a dream.
He's always flying in his dreams and lands on cruise ships or hovers over Atlanta with an erection.
He put me to bed and the drugs wore off and I woke to cannibals at my extremities.
I woke with a sense of what nails in the palms might do to a spirit temporarily confined to flesh.
That too was an accident if you believe Judas merely wanted to be loved.
To be loved by God, Urban the 8th had heads cut off that were inadequately bowed by dogma.
To be loved by Blondie, Dagwood gets nothing right except the hallucinogenic architecture of sandwiches.
He would have drilled through a finger too while making a case for books on home repair and health.
Drilling through my finger's not the dumbest thing I've done.
Second place was approaching a frozen gas-cap with lighter in hand while thinking heat melts ice and not explosion kills asshole.
First place was passing through a bedroom door and removing silk that did not belong to my wife.
Making a bookcase is not the extent of my apology.
I've also been beaten up in a bar for saying huevos rancheros in a way insulting to the patrons' ethnicity.
I've also lost my job because lying face down on the couch didn't jibe with my employer's definition of home office.
I wanted her to come through the door on Sunday and see the bookcase she'd asked me to build for a year and be impressed that it didn't lean or wobble even though I've only leaned and often wobbled.
Now it's half done but certainly a better gift with its map of my unfaithful blood.



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