The washedup wizard doesn't need a scrub

Why does my physical body melt off my bones into a puddle of piddlepaddle drivel, pick itself up off the concrete curvature, gain a mind of its own dime and doing, and go to the store like a misplaced shadow on a cloudy day—an impossible missive misnomer garden gnome?

why does he buy a pack of cancer sticks and a golden bottle of colt fortyfive just to start the self-destruction all over again?

why does he overheat in his meat suit and enjoy his minor comforts which only detriment his delicate delineations of miracle existence when every second is closer to his last?

why does my own body build itself back up like a maple tree made of meat and blood and bones and other oddly possible amazingly architectured ephemera entities? who’s the real person of real people and who’s the shadow person in human clothing? whose shadow am i wearing today? tonight? tomorrow? yesterday?

who am i if i don’t care who is who and instead sit on my stoop and observe the world in happy sleepy cement stoop stoned philosopher somnolence and drink a golden elixir forty and allow the malt liquor to make warm unspooling summer evening music with my molecules?

i’m just another washed-up wizard, too orangutangannul to do anything with my omnipotence, letting my starcluster galaxyladen hat droop over my looping eyes and letting my magic intermingle with the malt liquor melting my belly

let them peddle the next revolution; let me leave the strings untangled and dangling, content not to be the knot they once were, the snarl they once gnarled, grimaced by the brain matter they once were potatomashed into—i eat my potatomash, you see, and enjoy every airplane spoonful of its buttery cargo

the stoop wizard in the drooping hat swooping off balance all topsyturvy, watching the cars whizzing by with their incessance and necessities and grumbling stomachs; not i, said the wizard, demystifying his wand, gutting it, sprinkling stardust and moonbeams into it, rolling it perfectly imperfectly into a divebomber delivering only peace, and smoking it as the fat doobie it always was but never knew to be true

the washedup wizard who never wears tightywhiteys – especially not gasolinesoaked ones in this eightbit sidescrolling hellhole – and lets it all hang loose, for every second is closer to his comfiest