Travelers
It was a slow day at our county fair. The bearded lady had lost her comb somewhere back In Timbuktu so she stayed in her trailer, quietly picking out her dreads. Billy the Contortionist was filling in for Jaq the Cannonball who was sick in bed with lead poisoning. I sat and dangled my midget legs over the pickup truck's edge and watched popcorn get spilled again and again.
Paranoia
An empty page such as this is a glorious thing. It waits blank and pure for the stroke of my thought. "Prophesize dear writer, give me a tale." I sit down to glorify my life in the medium of ink. Suddenly the words turn wooden in my hand and the sweet smell of complexity is reduced to "cool dude" and "yeah." As the cliches pile up and my brow furrows down my pallet speaks to me and says, "Ma'am, you'd best not be wasting my time anymore with your self-proclaimed sage wisdom, I've had enough of these tales of woe and weird. Oh Keeper of Words, get off your high horse."
I know
what I'm talking about
So please shut up
and listen
The constant stream of words
Are a never-ending rush from your mouth
it's been on my mind
And it should be on yours
mind me now
And mind your god-damn business.
Tell me, is your brain connected
to your mouth
or just your anal tubes?
