= fatso =
a old poem
Fatso is the little man with the mischievous smirk,
whom in and out of frontal lobes he had been known to creep and lurk.
And in his stealing, my soul he took,
held captive in a jar, stashed in a box, on the shelf with the books.
Blank I wandered, dry as toast
for years and years and miles and pounds, my body searched for its lost host.
In my wandering, through the upside of down,
I encountered a man in a fool’s disguise who laughed a frightful sound.
It was the miniature felon, holding my soul arrest
And would only return it if he with my soul could partner and contest.
I would do his sinful deeds, he would return my reason
and from that day to this, I have been a slave to his internal treason.
This poem and others like it are from early 2000 writings. I deeply love these little nuggets, which have been hiding away on my shelf for over 20 years. It’s time they came out.