Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

my head must be wooden,
all these carpenter breaths
exhaling a life of sawdust memories
termites in and termites out

some blockheads didn't need advice
even though there were others
that seemed to care about preserving
unusual antique heads

that have weathered the day to day
monsoons of respiration, oh so
vulnerable to decay from dry rot
and those neurotic insects that eat

the cellulose of sanity
like salty potato chip dregs
from the bottom of a bowl
of dead-end snacks, the Jumbo

Maniac size bag, poured out
into a pile of alluring apathy
with tons of unnatural ingredients added
the subliminal addiction, the junk

I craved, I've written the stories, the poems
but c'mon, I've heard tales of little green men
read accounts, the moon is made of swiss cheese,
hell, I've even read, ha ha, that the earth is round

Fine write.