I Hereby Banish Myself to the Land of Wind and Ghosts. My innermost thoughts are armadas. And their daily sea shanties keep me up at night. Ghosts have no need for riches. I, too, am a ghost. I hit snooze, sleepwalk through life, power nap, rinse, lather, and repeat. I am a concave vessel and it hurts so bad. So I dance a minuet by myself under the ceiling fan.

In this knock-down-drag-out gladiator coliseum called life. But I often settle for less. On Kraft Macaroni and Cheese at 3 in the morning. Someday exercise bikes, ThighMasters, and rusty treadmills will collect dust. In vast gym equipment graveyards, some still whirring, clanking. Like metal pillbugs searching for someone to oil their joints.

My Mind is the Only Thing That I Know Exists. I like taking a quiet ride out into the country. Hidden in the brambles that worry me. Their songs might very well. One never really can tell.

The poem you are now reading. Who, you may be asking, is Greg Santos? A jumble of lines and scribbles. Bits of data on a computer screen. A lemur disguised as a man. He is a figment of your. Greg Santos once killed a dragon. Did I say dragon? Did I say with his bare hands? I meant by overfeeding. He is sometimes a pen grasped by a hand,. Attached to an arm, linked by nerves. To a brain, where inside we find.

My Mecha Squirrel Runs on Batteries, Not Acorns. I fashioned her out of synthetic fur, a Mickey Mouse alarm clock, and from parts of mechanized pencils. She infiltrates wild squirrel cliques, bringing me back her findings every night before I go to sleep. The juicy squirrel gossip she dishes out is a welcome respite from my ho-hum days. Did I mention that she lives in my head? That detail must have slipped my mind.