She collects coffins and comforters
for fun,
but knows not where to keep them.
At night,
she breaks into buildings boarded up
and stows them there.
Why she does this. She doesn’t know.
The homeless think she is
an angel.
They find comfort, cold irony, wherever they find her work.
If there is ever an animal olympics, I want to work with the gorillas.
Get those beasts on a weight-training regimen and what a team you would have.
Sure, the incessant dung hurling would get old,
and the pissing, let’s not for get about that,
but after the training
and the olympics. Gold for my team of gorillas.
Now I need to create my own nation and flag for these olympics
of which I speak.
In between the middle
and the long since the past,
before you start to fiddle
and time seems not to last,
when it’s already yesterday
and yesterweek too near,
and each coming grows ever perilous fear.
He was clever. I mean, he had ideas, man.
What do you mean ideas?
Well, whenever he’d move he’d get crazy creative man.
Specific?
He invented his own shaving cream.
How’d he do that?
A combination of skin cream, soap, and neosporin.
Really…
Then he made is own bbq potato chips.
They make those already.
Not the point. Moves shake him up.
He took regular chips and doused them in bbq sauce and then put them in the oven for a few minutes and voila. Bbq chips.
I don’t get it.
That’s not even the biggest one.
Right. Biggest one.
He invented a pill that colors your breath when it’s bad.
Sure.
It lets others around you know if you have bad breath.
You know, simple chronic halitosis.
It came in blue, pink, and green.
Green wasn’t going to sell well.
It would show you a stream of how many feet away the bad breath was coming from.
You could avoid the plume like a car eluding a deer on the highway.
The guy was brilliant man.
What happened to him?
Don’t know.
He moved away.
The migraine is a pain
and an energy drain.
It’s a black sheet of rain
on a lion’s mane,
an undiscovered flu strain.
I don’t mean to bewail and complain,
but I do not dig a migraine.
Text me a 1
if you are splendid a 2
if you’re a bit muddled a 3
if the hell and the hand basket are getting together.
You can be my muse, and I’ll be your Tony Robbins
without the ganglyness
and odd skin tone
and facial hair choices.
I was called to Santa Fe because of its mystical reputation.
My sisters went there, too.
I found her online, and then, at a restaurant, I saw one of her pamphlets.
The next day, I contacted her while walking through the plaza. She had an opening, and I saw her for two hours, after which I had a decadent lunch and a couple of glasses of great red wine before temporarily falling in love with the wine shoppe girl.
The lady put me on her mailing list. She knows Bob Dylan.
