Do you eat the years?  Do your hungry eyes mash the sunset in salivating jowls?  Do I agree with myself about our first meeting?  That was when you freestyled everything from my dance to my haircut, peeled my eyes with a hockey stick in the dusk with gnats, gnashed your eye teeth at my audition song.  You didn’t see potential through the enamel.  You seen it?  

Corinthian, you are blue-eyed souled-out David Bowie in linen white slacks, you are camel hair Italian suedey blues, you are scotch eggs 190 proof, you are enlightened darkness, you believe in leavened dorkness.  A touch from your dongle could infect billions of ones and zeros.  

I’m sorry that you got divorced, oh great reader of comic books and people.  Could you read your wife as well as you read me?  Was it the gambling?  Were impossible stakes in your vows?  Detach, detached, no attachments, no reproachments, no encroachments, no breath mints, no window tints, no fake tizzies, sham sham do away with them them.  

And under a dark cloud the dark wizard passes the time with me.  A prison I put us into.  Funny, I wonder if the monkeys in the cage hate their jailers, or just the baboons on the shady side of the footpath.  Why must those who have it together be in my eyeline?  Dark wizard, you fueled the rage we felt for the baboons, and I stood beside you ready to throw my shit.  But when target practice was over and it came to throw shit or get off the pot, where were you?  In bed reading your disorganized chemistry book.  Boy, the baboons didn’t like us, but really me, after that. Then the jailers gave me a lecture.  And you bailed, wizard.  You ran like a fucking coward.  Then what do you do?  You throw your shit at me!  The nerve of people!

Aardvark, get your protractors and rulers and measure my steps.  I take giant ones, like Coltrane-sized. You wouldn’t know.  Aardvark, you screw up your ugly face to talk to me in facial vortex.  It is difficult to look at you.  First off, only birds fly that high to get a good look.  That’s the only good look you ever get.

Those that get close to me may want to do me harm.  I’ve suffered too.  I’ve privileged out at a low level.  I’ve been bullied, crossed, joke-butted, smothered and covered.  And no one cares.

You care about cats competing for pets, the Players’ Ball of Chicago, a California Pizza Chicken Shake Shack, and a love supreme pizza.  You care about James Bond, the new cadillac, recycling, upcycling, unicycling, bike paths, and swaths of yoga pants on racks under air conditioning.  Pick pockets in France.  Where the Laker ladies dance.  Bip – that’s a rimshot on the Mars rover.

“Talk that gibberish, fool.”  Please.  Don’t act like I don’t make sense, all day every day, every customer served.  I just can’t pretend like you.  That it all lines up in the ledger correctly.  That it will all come out in the wash.  I hate all of you equally.  For reasons.  For documented slights of hand and mouth.