The mechanic, electrician, carpenter, fireman, policeman, and soldier genes are all totally recessive in me; therefore, I became a nurse, teacher, and poet.
I’m not your stereotypical all-American man.
Lacking the talent of a handyman, rather than swinging a hammer, I pencil lavish iniquities. Instead of twisting a screwdriver, my mind is constantly twisting ideas into knots and words into indiscretions.
Instead of putting out fires, I like to ignite them. Instead of shooting machine guns, I want to decorate them. Instead of handcuffing criminals, I tie up my girlfriend or let her handcuff me.
My singing voice sounds like a cheap can of dog food, smooth as chunky peanut butter, so I read and recite to prevent injury to sensitive eardrums.
Rather than meekly submitting to my deformities, I choose to turn the tables on them through paradoxes, make art of them by crafting linguistic puzzles, and exploit them with colorful conundrums. I poke fun at my imperfections by scribbling riddles and rhymes peppered with irony.
My writing can be kind of cheesy, sort of dumb, usually audacious, falling decisively on the far side of reason.
When I read in public, it’s not unusual to hear a stifled cough, snorts, or sniggers, to see eyes rolling like marbles on a warped floorboard, and, occasionally, to experience applause which, I suspect, is motivated more by relief than admiration.
I’m not your stereotypical all-American man I’m a Murse.
My friend John (RIP), an army flight nurse, would refer to himself and other masculine nurses as “Murses”. The image is a cartoon by my friend and colleague, Jim Gamble (RIP), another Murse.
Desert Dweller 