Tomorrow I’ll Wear Different Shoes and We Can Eat Chicken

by Galvin Chapman

with photos by Kira Altman

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If I had a dollar for every dime
You spent on clothing
I would be wasted
And we’d never quit smoking here

But if I had a dollar for every time
I complained about your expenditures
I’d probably die
Of heart, liver, kidney failure combined

And you’d stand at my wake
With your leather boots and designer Dior sunglasses
Your subconscious whispering, “I told you so,”
But your conscious lips mouthing, “At least you died happy.”

All the while you know you died long ago
The day perfection meant more than reality
And reality had no relation to perception
And perception bled into insecurities of self
And self became the inner-vocal-point of all thoughts
Yet all thoughts were separate from body
And body and mind no longer had any activity.

And I stood at your wake
Mississippi mud in one hand, cigarette in the other
My subconscious whispering, “At least I’ll die happy,”
But my chapped lips mouthing, “So did you.”

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