Another Spot On The February Leopard

I have Lovecraftian fantasies about the hospital librarian. She speaks a gentle British accent, listens to NPR some times and other times to classical music on the radio, she is kind and helpful to whomever calls or queries. Something is amiss. I am certain that green blistered tentacles extend down from her torso hidden behind that quaint desk of hers.

I am certain also that the hospital librarian is associated with the Latino midgets wearing scrubs who populate the employee cafeteria.

I wish I could remember what the cave told me. Instead I remember: I'm no fucking Buddhist but this is enlightenment. Let love in.

Am I a puppet or a puppeteer? Both as equally as night and day, apples and grapes, Spain and the rubies it's made of.

The bunnies are miniature and sometimes my birthday falls on the day of their chocolate resurrection. We are a petting zoo.

The tentacles I don't see blind me.