run while you can

Wholesale meets wholesome.

Unfinished: A future Waver, no doubt. One room. Spring 2011.

Ernie Sanders was one assumption after another.
He assumed a position playing cornerback,
assumed injuries, and assumed benching.
He assumed himself brutish yet sensitive,
a tried and true struggling intellectual,
a man sans a passion, a constant loss.
Ernie assumed himself six foot ten,
lugging around an assumed 260 pounds.

Everything Ernie assumed was a mistake,
right down to his height and his weight.
Football assumed him a has-been, never-was.
Injury assumed him almost unemployable.

But, by the stars, Ernie assumed occupation.
Ernie’s assumed intelligence helped some,
but it was his sheepishness that allowed the boss
to assume him an idiot savant, an artist.

Of course, this assumption too was a mistake.
No, not the assumption about idiot savants
(of which artists are the most common form),
but of Ernie, whose assumed inability to speak
had no mystical effect on his artistic aptitude.
Regardless, Ernie was employed as an editor
under this era’s greatest post-postmodern poet,
James Seymour, or Ian Joust, his assumed alias.


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