A journal of narrative writing.
Secrets of the Body Revealed

While people sleep, toes pop out of their foot-holes and hop into the streets where,
meeting other toes, they hold revels of which nice people don’t speak.
   A psychic sense of their hosts’ state of consciousness helps to conceal their wanderings.
Blinding speed helps, too. Still, people who leap from bed frequently fall.
   Lovers may wake with toes on one another’s feet. Or two toes may claim the same
hole. The foot’s owner, roused by the fight, tells himself, “just a bad dream.”
   The fingers—solemn, pious—roam infrequently, but lacking the toes' speed and
homing sense, create more woes. When they jam into toe holes, the owner may strain his
back scratching his nose.
   A nose-and-penis switch exemplifies obscene.
   Arms and legs, too, enjoy a midnight stroll. Knowledgeable burglars lock all doors of a
house, then steal at leisure while owners flip like flounders in their beds.
   To thwart such fiends, I own no valuables.
   To stop the monstrous practice of foot-piping, I sleep in metal shoes with doggie-doors
large enough to let toes come and go, but small enough to ward off all lips but the wind’s.