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[In Pursuit of Fun]

Brock Miller


In pursuit of fun,

we circle a track for hours,

our legs like bronze sculpture,

a perfect cut of muscle,

designed to attract

a doll-perfect beauty,

for sterile, and clean

safety-first tango.

In pursuit of fun,

there is always a television.

My friendly box does the thinking

for me; an injection of idiocy, down a long

hypodermic cable it sleeps;

the flashing entertainment box

always makes me laugh!

In pursuit of fun,

my friends occasionally speak.

“Are you having a good time?” they ask me.

Yes, I affirm and order another.

Together we hoot and holler

at the flashing box: sports.

In pursuit of fun,

there is always time

for a fast car ride.

I pretend that I am a race-car driver;

I am never scared of anything.

My shirt orders that there

shall be no fear. Fear is a sign

of weakness.

It does not exist.

In pursuit of fun,

I laugh at death.

I mock death because

It does not stimulate me

to think of dying;

there is a pile of ashes

at the end of the fire;

the fire never thinks of this.