Instead of a forehead, the Monopod is endowed with the determined prow of a shin. Ankle bones instead of ears flare attentively from a lean face. Teeth? Five ragged toenails. Here’s one who doesn't resent being called a heel. Left out? He kicks the door down. Uncertain of a position? He stamps out the opposition! Like a hat that’s too large, difficult questions are best danced around, at first slowly, then faster and faster. Right foot, left. Right! Left! Once the inhabitant of a land beyond the torn edge of the map, the end of knowledge, abode of our darkest fears, the Monopod has been realized in us. You think I’m talking about someone else.
Man, Bill, that's a great prose poem. Funny but spooky because of the perfect ending.
Here's a poem for you, Peter.
Political Man
Instead of a forehead, the Monopod is endowed with the determined prow of a shin. Ankle bones instead of ears flare attentively from a lean face. Teeth? Five ragged toenails. Here’s one who doesn't resent being called a heel. Left out? He kicks the door down. Uncertain of a position? He stamps out the opposition! Like a hat that’s too large, difficult questions are best danced around, at first slowly, then faster and faster. Right foot, left. Right! Left! Once the inhabitant of a land beyond the torn edge of the map, the end of knowledge, abode of our darkest fears, the Monopod has been realized in us. You think I’m talking about someone else.