Be Myself

I took back the night. Wrested it from the Chinese, many of  whom were shorter than me. Two billion outstretched Chinese hands, give or take a few thousand amputees. A cheap knockoff, the night proved to be —Nokla not Nokia on the touchscreen. Well, even Old Peng gotta eat, Confucius say. Or maybe that was Cassius Clay. In me, folks, a movable object meets a resistible force. I haven’t worked a day since the accident of   birth. Born of  woman, my father the same. Make love then war. I’ll bring round the car. These children that I spit on are immune to my consultations. I’ll have none myself. It isn’t (Write it!) a fiasco. I am small, I contain platitudes.