Financing a mind with a paradigm;
past cardboard mementos, digging for
that spare cash we’ve got flapping
around in the love seat.
Who’s to win
in this array of dissonance,
this projection screen?
The one we feed;
the mind we nurture with selected peanut butter;
the one we swathe in holy standards
picked up from a Steinbeck novel or
reflected in mirrors of eye contact.
I do not take offense.
I choose to leave it on the coffee table,
to ferment itself to sourdough.