Amid fellow navigator Knights clamoring at the heels of

Al-Freedomster’s daytime talk show bonanza,

In raucous, melodious chants,

Welcome to the Monkey House,

where life is fun and games

Welcome to the Monkey House,

you’ll find we’re all the same

Welcome to the Monkey House,

you’ll find an excellent view

Welcome to the Monkey House,

find the Monkey House in you

I resort to locking myself in,

And my fellows out

In self-imposed solitude,

A temporary self-exile from all social activity

To slow the beating of my heart

And peer out the window for long periods of time,

In silent staring,

A donning of the cone-shaped hat

For purposes of inducing thought.

I come here to think sometimes.

I lock myself in and I peer out the window.

This room has an excellent view.

Still, eventually,

I felt compelled to reach out,

To share my thoughts privately with someone

Before the talk show scribes picked up the scent,

Pitched me a format,

And presented them on the air

For fans of Al-Freedomster to repeat and dissect

And laud the world over…

So I asked myself,

Who am I to reach out to?

Following the realization that my jawbone had gone missing,

And thus my only way to communicate beyond grunting

Was via the technology of text messaging,

I clutched my phone,

And slouched at the window,

Typing, sending, waiting.

And though I waited for a long time

My messages received no replies.

Then the phone dropped from my hand

And fell two stories down

Into a black puddle.


San Francisco, 2012