Mister Mondegreen

I’ve planted it here in my bones and made it a part of the ringing in my ears. There’s no Marquessa of Nice Dreams. All is tinnitus and susurration—nightmares in the depths of our daily miracles.

Place your hand here on this chopping block. I promise to draw it from memory once I’ve severed it. Then I’ll scotch tape the drawing onto your stump.

Call me peculiar, call me nightmare whippersnapper, but don’t call me Mister Marmolista!

The rocks I chip away at are imperfection. I want to free the plague inside of the blocks of marble.

I’m a bit unusual, you see. I work addition by subtraction. I’m an attraction. Come one, come all—but don’t use my come blanket, that is all mine.

Come into the light where I may see you better and clarify what mystifies me about you. Then I’ll ask about that odd orange-yellow patina all about you—about millet and colitis.

I don’t recall where I heard about that mondegreen once. Instead of hearing: “the girl with kaleidoscope eyes,” they heard “a girl with colitis goes by.”

So call me Mr. Mondegreen instead—that’s my life.

Now you may go about yours. Have a nice day.

What I’m Reading:

“you are the cow that gives birth
to an unutterable fantasy
you are the jelly
& you are the come blanket”

— Harris Schiff / “Pure Poison”