At a recent Word Cafe
pictures passed around the room are
designed to rouse our inner writer
during the heady pursuit
of summer activities.
The picture I received
depicted three monkeys cutting hair.
I imagined myself in the barber’s chair
the lucky recipient of said haircut
and may I add fully conscious, trusting and completely insane.
Wary to See
Speak No EVIL
about these darling monkeys, because I like monkeys.
Also, being very superstitious
I have learned
from my past
not to let the unlicensed
whether human or monkey
anywhere near my delicate scalp.
Yeah, I let them cut my fucking hair.
However, suffering as I do from chronic stupidity
a condition passed down to me
from that anonymous side of the family
I tend to forget
life’s little lessons.
Consequently, my existence is a series of 50 first dates
and crooked bangs
each day beginning with
familiar strangers and events.
Each day rife with frustrations
What was the Name of that Movie
that Author, and more to the point
Who the Fuck Am I
and Why Should You Care.
Ah, the writer’s life
hunting and pecking for the perfect juxtaposition
of meaning and metaphor. In search of the highly distracted,
I want, I want, I want, audience,
the vulgar pay for a million hours of sweat, blood and bodily excrement.
I’m no movie star
nor am I a scientist
or even Georgio from Ancient Aliens
who sometimes looks, like a monkey
or an alien, with outrageous hair.
As Georgio says
it could be possible
that these monkeys
are the missing links
and really exceptional hairdressers.
I have to admit
it is plausible
but I am willing to risk being wrong.
I have only one
token head of hair to give.
In the meantime
I will try to maintain a positive outlook
so as to appear normal
to my loyal Friends and Facebook followers.
Since both of them
would be swayed
were it not for my personal sacrifice,
the dedicated followers that they are,
they two might be tempted
to let monkeys cut their hair.