When I was still a wooden puppet,

my heart was just a splinter cell

of that most American right to

dream of nicer things. I yearned

to be a real boy, but I never knew

what sorts of awful glowing red

coal thoughts would be expected

of me. Real boys like me can’t stop

thinking about Raggedy Ann’s soft,

plush ass, her stringy lips. I’m telling

you, I was a feminist back before

I learned about magic. Now I’m just

confused. Now I am a real boy. These

misfit toys have got it pretty good,

even though they don’t know it.

I remember being nothing, living

that old wooden puppet life, bearing

the player’s thoughts on my grainy

face. I am responsible. I am a real boy.

I wish someone could change me back,

back to a simpler time when I could bear

the weight of all these fleshy thoughts…

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