The King of Poetry came to my door this morning and questioned my loyalty. It was terribly awkward. I swore to him that I was still devoted to him, but that, as a citizen also of Prose, I had to balance my allegiance. He asked me to revoke Prose and swear fealty only to him. I said goodbye and closed the door softly in his face. The King of Poetry walked, forlorn, back to his old, brown Chevy Impala and drove away. What a strange and pitiful character he is, in his silly king costume with his ratty sneakers and pot belly, one temple of his thick bifocal glasses missing so that they sit crooked on his bulbous nose.
Life's been complicated lately. Have you noticed this? Whenever I try to watch the birds in the trees outside the window they call the cops on me. The clouds passing by overhead are all pay-per-view. The subdivision where I live has been zoned "No Humming". My Internet service provider has started charging extra for whimsical information, so I'm stuck downloading crime statistics and stock market tickers. I have to fill out a request in triplicate if I want to sigh about all of it. So far they've all been rejected, bold red letters stamping "SIGH UNJUSTIFIED" across the form. It's enough to make a grown man stand in line to purchase a crying permit.
The King of Poetry has a bumper sticker that says, "I Break For Emphasis". I'm not sure if that's funny or not.
Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?
Later. Love.
