Why is everything I do in my life like a boomerang? I throw the paper airplane out the window and the wind sends it back. I spit against the wind. You bought me a fur boomerang for my birthday. I hate you now. You are so rich. You are such a consumer. And I hate your boomerang. But I can't throw it away. It keeps coming back and hitting me in the back of the head. In a rooming house I lived in once I knew a boy who had a handmade boomerang. It was fifteen inches long. What a beautiful gigantic handmade boomerang. Every Sunday he practiced throwing it away, in Central Park, by that sailboat lake. People always talked to him and followed him. Everybody wanted to see his boomerang. ...But boomerangs are dangerous. When you fool around with boomerangs you have to know what you're doing. Congratulations, incidentally, on the birth of your brand new baby boy boomerang. How amazing that no matter where you leave him in the morning he is always in that basket, on your doorstep. I had a dream about a boomerang race. I lost. But do I really know what it means? Do I know what anything means? I kiss your amorous aluminum boomerang and the edges are so sharp my tongue gets sliced, my words get sliced and my lips are able to smile in two directions. And I think it would be nice to own a boomerang store. Glass boomerangs. Australian aborigine boomerangs. Rubber safety boomerangs. Regulation boomerangs for boomerang contests. And even automatic talking doll boomerangs. But why is everything I do in my life like a boomerang? I throw away my life and my life comes back.