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Pygmies On The Mississippi

Death ran amuck in the family. I was born in a mortician's portmanteau as he absconded. Remind me to look up that word. "Absconded."

In my youth, mom tossed me out a window. Thinking I was Amelia Earhart. I spread my arms. Picked up on the radar as a UFO. Unidentified Flying Ostrich. Shot down with a bottle rocket. 

It was the early years, that I keep close to my heart, As If a tire patch sealing a leak. I became an imamate object. Mom would dress me up like a table lamp. She said my mind was like a 40w light bulb.   

*

Subject to editing by my muse. In conversation with my own ghost. Might I say, it's not how I remembered myself. I seem to have a spouted a few wrinkles and a magnificent goiter. Mom would have been proud. She often said I was a chip off a block. It could have been cheese or an oak tree.

Mom was suffering from a lack of oxygen. She had been dead these last thirty years. Unfortunately, she shot herself four times in the head. Her viscera now hanging from the chandelier like swinging moss next to pa and Uncle Spinks 

In my adolescent years. I often masticated on crackers perusing mom's National Geographic magazines. Especially the naked pygmies of the Mississippi.

 Later discovering it was kinfolk on the river Amazon. During these years I grew fond of pickle loaf served at the Saddleblock Café. Their specialty wilted gonads served in an empty locust shell, but I was under-raged.     

Granny had recently blown herself up using the roto-rooter. Rescuing me from the kitchen sink drain trap. I was chasing Tiny. My five-pound pet tarantula.

Tiny ran off from a farm. After eating all the frigging homegrown menthol marijuana and Salamanders. The Scamander's were an old peaceful Amish family. Known for their orgies at the feed and grain store. AKA, Humphry's tattoo salon. 

It was there that I met my future strife. She was a bouncer at...

Time for my meds. Stay well. 

 

 

 

 

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