Monkey C

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When standing up straight, I am 10 feet tall with long white hair, white moustache and beard, and no discernable eyes. I generally like wearing trenchcoats, gunbelts, and cowboy hats. I can manifest myself as a rat at will, which causes my hair to turn brown and short, my spine to arch, and forces me to use corrective lenses to see with any degree of clarity. I speak in French, though I don't know the language. I simply have no idea what I'm saying. I live in a house made of cards which I built from a pinochle deck handed down to me from generation to generation by my mother. I have a pet cat, "Milo," who is peculiar and black. We spend nights together playing chess, drinking green tea, and discussing the phallic imagery in chapter 35 of Moby-Dick. I exist only in the most theoretical sense of the word; a hangnail on the finger of an ancient god who lives on a hill in the eye of a dragon in some forgotten corner of the universe. I work in a toystore, manufacturing sunlight for children who have lost their way. I am a hero by birthright, and a part-time soda jerk. I carry a big stick with a monkey skull tied to one end, and I shake it violently at the evils of this world.
I am a SWOLYAT and a SIGNIFYING MONKEY.
"If a poet is anybody, he is somebody to whom things made matter very little--somebody who is obsessed by Making. Like all obsessions, the Making obsession has disadvantages; for instance, my only interest in making money would be to make it. Fortunately, however, I should prefer to make almost anything else, including locomotives and roses. It is with roses and locomotives (not to mention acrobats Spring electricity Coney Island the 4th of July the eyes of mice and Niagra Falls) that my "poems" are competing."--ee cummings
"A mad man is talking to himself in the room next to mine. He speaks in prose. Presently I shall go to a bar and there one or two poets will speak to me and I to them and we will try to destroy each other or attract each other or even listen to each other and nothing will happen because we will be speaking in prose. I will go home, drunken and dissatisfied, and sleep -- and my dreams will be in prose. Even the subconscious is not patient enough for poetry." --Jack Spicer
"My soul knows my meat is doing bad things, and is embarrased. But my meat just keeps right on doing bad, dumb things." --Vonnegut
"Scott, things aren't as happy as they used to be down here at the unemployment office. Joblessness is no longer just for Philosophy majors - useful people are starting to feel the pinch. "