Three Monkeys
At a recent Word Cafe
pictures passed around the room are
designed to rouse our inner
writer
briefly displaced
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
Hear and
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
such as
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.
After all
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.
