I am a painting on a wall that hangs with my hands behind my back. This is why people stand with their hands behind their back when they look at me.
My brain is like the snow. It falls down in pieces I call words, in pieces you call snow. When I give a speech I call it winter, you call it a speech. There’s no difference between the two.
I am that piece of paper you crumpled up after class yesterday. For the first time ever my back side felt my front side, and I actually have intricate viscera.
My nose is a library. I smell with my library and the blood that comes from my library is a mixture of red and gold words that sings “somebody stop pulling the fire alarm; I’m trying to read Calvino.”
I am a chair that stands slightly under all sorts of tables, under all sorts of work spaces. Think about the time that you were making cookies and I stood underneath your arm and tasted the dough.
Walking home in the cold is a duck: there are speckles in the feathered sky and I am an orange beak breaking through the water, searching for breadcrumbs. When summer comes I walk north.
I have three dogs at home named id, ego and superego. When I take them on a walk the only thing people want to know is how my day is going.
I eat toast in the morning. This is a metaphor for how I like to eat bacon, eggs and pancakes with maple syrup for breakfast.
When the moon comes out, I think that the moon is a man curled up. I am agog and always wait for him to arch his back and stretch.
I can never find my car keys or uncook my eggs. There must be a metaphor there.