R.G. Johnson

I am (bang!) loneliness who harbors

raindrop tears and thunder curses beneath Well Ajusted�s smoggy

clouds of trick-dog conformity.

I am milky-silk Courteousness� pocket missile

of nuclear nothingness pointed at Normal�s dollhouse reverie.

I am an alien: illegal and extraterrestrial

singing Martian mariachi haikus on Average�s emerald lawn.

I am tattoo-vine arms with a whooping poltergeist head seated in the front row

of Amazing�s fluffy graduation.

I am unnecessarily necessary to the constant resuscitation of Boring�s

self-reassurance; a daily half-mast zipper evaluation of normalcy.

I am a convenient target for Judgment�s breathy snickers and Dracula-cough mockery.

I am a trick-or-treat grab bag of multi-flavored trumpet-voiced inappropriate comments

and the world loves me like it�s closet opiates and candy-coated bigotries.