Homer was a lunatic,
to imagine fantasies like he did.
At least, that is what Uncle Albert insisted.
He's not one to talk, though.
He has daily conversations
with a pet rock,
a storm-colored, ordinary one, named Clarence.
Uncle Al looks like a caveman,
hairy brown and not too smart,
a definite descendant of the apes.
I like him.
We went fishing once.
I hate fishing.
Slithery wet, balloon eyes bulging,
the fish breath
in toxic suffocation, and hope eternity
doesn't last forever.
I usually throw them back to salvation.
I dusted off my brain, so I could listen
to the love letter my dreams
sent me last night, straight from the sated twilight
between starlit drifting and wakefulness.
They told me the fish were okay.
Birds can't fly.
We just think they can. Or so Uncle Albert protests.
He says nothing is as it seems;
It's only how we imagine it to be.
Well, I for one will believe
my dreams...or the fish.
Whichever tells me first
the lies mistaken for truth...
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