Calligraphy

Dear Grasshopper, I’m glad I wasn’t born a cow. Still, my head has always been the wrong shape. It gets stuck in awkward places. This is what I’ve been trying to tell you. Each time my head gets jammed in the toilet, my mind drifts down the drain. When all the bowls flush in unison, I have volcano dreams and camcorder eyes. What’s your problem? If these guts were bleeding you wouldn’t notice. I’m sorry I shouted at the stall door. I don’t always do the right thing. I’m not perfect. Squiggling your name on the bathroom wall, the marker leaks brown ink all over my hand. What’s your lucky number? Can you roll your Rs? Walking to work, I pass through a city block covered in cheese puffs. Cheese puffs are my idea of detox. Dear Lord, I’m sorry for the way I look and talk. A witch wearing a rabbit’s head peeks under the door to see the god with three dicks mount the bed made of breasts. We devolve into goo and slime. It doesn’t take long for a bathroom to fill up with hair. Mouths open and metaphors splash into the piss water like words of stone. I’ve shit myself in every city I’ve ever lived. My shape has always been the wrong size.