“The ChairI’m writing to you, who made the archaic wooden chairlook like a throne while you sat on it.Amidst your absence, I choose to sit on the floor,which is dusty as a dry Kansas day.I am stoic as a statue of Buddha,not wanting to bother the old wooden chair,which has been silent now for months.In this sunlit moment I think of you.I can still picture you sitting there--your forehead wrinkled like an un-ironed shirt,the light splashed on your face,like holy water from St. Joseph’s.The chair, with rounded curveslike that of a full-figured woman,seems as mellow as a monk in prayer.The breeze blows from beyond the curtains,as if your spirit has come back to rest.Now a cloud passes overhead,and I hush, waiting to hear what restsso heavily on the chair’s lumbering mind.Do not interrupt, even if the wind offers to carryyour raspy voice like a wispy cloud.”

“If I had a wooden leg I could sit on three-legged chairs no problem.”

“You are getting a wooden leg for your birthday, and you are going to love it. Incidentally, this means removing your leg below the knee. You’ll make lots of friends. You can even attach a bundle of straw at the end, like a broom, and apply to be a janitor.”

“My forehead is starting to get wrinkled, but you’d hardly notice it because all the wrinkles in my shirt would distract your attention from my face.”

“She had breasts like deflated balloons, and nipples like the wrinkled and floppy part you put your mouth on to blow them up.”

“If you put a long-haired wig on and ask nicely, I might sit on your back and ride you like a horse. I believe that’s the only appropriate way to show you how much I love you.”

“I wanted to study graphic design, because I wanted to work in an office with designer desks, ergonomic chairs, pool tables, and walls so colorful it looks like a flock of flamingoes exploded and splattered evenly from floor to ceiling.”