Practice Makes Perfectionists Question Their Perfections (2008)

I have a confession to make:

Heartbreak dancers flake snow globes spinning pins and needles in hay-stacker two by fours. Pour milk in silk spheres clearing curious cats crying over spilled tears of forgotten chores. Clean rooms of dust puppies pounding pave-meant to be spotless 456-7upping perfectionists, while percussionists bang drums slowly and twiddle thumbs boldly going where no composer has gone before. Make a mental note that true trouble is treble clef theft from an unsupervised staff of chimpanzees and accordion players with polka dot lunch boxes and hulk underwear with stretched elastic.

Measure IQ’s with standardized rests hooked to dreamscapes scraping cerebellums with mozzarella moto-photo operatives stuck on cheese and cracker jack boxers in the ring of fireman extinguishing memories of a forgotten fast food diet, but be quiet the sleeping tea bags have no caffeine.

Cold cuts hurt more than warm butts of cigarettes sinking slowly into flesh.
Turkey’s give thanks for being spared one more year and confess of killing appetites while in flight and fight with penguins unarmed but for grins and grappling hooks stuck on fish flailing to mail postmen messages of the deli closing for renovations.

Popsicle sticks and stones break wishbones phoning homework answers to kids clueless as to why train A and train B arrived at the same time last year. Wiffle ball bats are made out of waffles eggoing on hungry pitchers to throw strikes only to bowler batters confused of which sports-man-ship the gods sailed on when immortality failed them.

Detectives discover meat markets to be a great place to meet criminals holding sausage parties and arrest insomniacs keeping Sherlock up at night on whether he was sure to lock his car door, for the more watts on, the deader the battery will become once Watson arrives the next morning to drive to the scene of the roast beef.

Hieroglyphics clear up pimples and cheer up dimples disappearing from smiles gone awry inside pyramids perverting librarians stuck in bookmarks. Sweaty pogo stick users make me sick to my esophagus and racist confetti should not be thrown out, because I hate cleaning up the message.

Pinatas made of diamonds broke my engagement to the one woman I still valued. On bended knee I sucked her finger and swallowed her ring, I digested it all three weeks later and checked the toilet only to find her current boyfriend floating helplessly in a sea of my shit, I flushed my three pairs of queens along with a straight jacket and him. It didn’t all go down as smoothly as I would have liked.

My to do list for my next sixteen to–do lists ended up in my washing machine, and when I put them both in the dryer I felt a renewed sense of accomplishment comparable to the time I circumcised my brother when he was being a dickhead to my father.

Apples.

The fact that I will sit here for a good portion of my day and write this
scares me more than most people. I fear I may have lost all sense of sense.

Cigars, milk shakes and honey nut Cheerios.

Perhaps not.

Perhaps knots tied before careers comply will end in frenzy.

Do not pass go. Do not pass gas. Do not pass notes in my class.
Put your hands over your head and lean to the right then left,
Flex, this is the home stretch.

Mail your presents to your friends and family exactly one year before their actual birthday date, its never too early to wrap this up.
Jockey’s listen to me especially-
Hold your horses I think I’m about to end.

Be profound with me and get lost.

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About Scottt

Actor, Author, Poet.

Posted on September 16, 2012, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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