In the Basement ~ Friday, June 5, 2026

I am so quiet, even mice whisper

as to listen to my thoughts about rice
maybe they think I know Mumble Bunny

so to spin lettuce without a crisper
ordinarily, I speak to no one

questions arise whether I live for spice
understand, we will never meet, funny
in a silent way, how deadly, kiss me
even if you get my jokes, is it fun
to speak with a poet, or a madman

even the mice whisper thoughts in my ears
very often, I wake up just to scan
eternity in a nutshell, his fears
none less than Prince Hamlet, bad dreams, you see

mice whispering in my ears while I sleep
in the dark, I cannot find my way home
comb the streets for my corpse, I must be dead
even if we meet, not even a peep

whispered into my ears by mice, the spice
however, in my brain, under the dome
inside my cranium, my skull, unfed
special sauce lacks garlic, what is the point
perhaps, to eat meatballs with orzo rice
each to their own, is that not what she said
rings as Sicilian anelli pasta
if we met, we could learn to cook, instead
noodles get devoured inside a spa
given, I am quiet, mice smoke a joint

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