THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS A STUPID QUESTION
All the good questions have been asked.
Am I my brother’s keeper?
Are you my pork chop?
What’s a guy gotta do to get a drink around here?
I’ve been dreaming about my brother,
who lived on Crete. I dragged him out of the surf,
dead drunk, 150-pound carp, but hairier
& muttering every pariah’s secret,
“I’m a creep. I’m a creep.”
Do dreams begin responsibilities?
Frere Jacques, Frere Jacques, dormez vous?
A squalid rented room,
the furniture shrouded in wax paper.
Who’s to blame? A stupid question.
Brother Jon, Jon, my brother, are you sleeping?