of the lint

Two Versions of My Alleged Madness

i.

I ate your bonsai tree after you trimmed it and jumped on October 28, 1929.

I practiced Iridology in the nude during alternating waning crescents of the moon during the Reagan presidency.

In 2001 I half baked ideas in a red Martha Stewart branded Dutch oven for 15 minutes at 175°.

I sculpted dozens of show ponies out of the lint in my belly button.

ii.

I dream of passed balls at the heme hour.

I lick the transmission on your 1976 Dodge Dart every morning when you’re in the shower.

The mange and bedbugs are my “bestest” friends.

I’m sleepwalking toward disaster with the rest of them.

What I’m Reading:

“A large clean room
With plenty of sunlight
And one cockroach
To tell your troubles to.”

— Charles Simic / “For Rent”

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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