ON THE INTERNET
I’ve lost my humor: my false
teeth surround their tongue,
threaten to chew it next time it
flickers, stomach accepts nothing
but charcuterie, and feet demand
to amble on dunes. I guess I’ll buy
a bus or plane ticket to Key West,
where I’ll hide out with an online
sweetheart—a folk-singing nun named
Dominique—under a resort parasol.
We’ll hide out a week, swap recipes
for Long Island Teas, Miami Vices,
and Blue Hawaiians. No habits
except drinking and screwing,
so I hope my nightmare will end soon,
but a subpoena may be waiting:
my name is linked to a shipjack
because I have a rap sheet longer
than a yacht. I’d like to remain
a complete stranger to everyone
but Dominique, even though I
receive catalogues of mugs,
paintings, and buckskin jackets
illustrated with playing cards.
I might look for my twin there
and confront her about my cut
of the robbery. Maybe I’ll pour
myself a Grasshopper or tell
Dominique I’m now her manager.
Hell, on second thought my garden
needs weeding, and I can find another
crazy girlfriend on the Internet.
Gerald So reads "On the Internet":
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David confesses: "I'm fascinated how life on the lam is, how criminals perform misdeeds, embrace relationships, and enjoy good times. The Internet makes this possible by supplying a resourceful fugitive a little anonymity, but a felonious life still contains complications--however, they can be decreased by cynical humor."