The first time I grew a beard, no one knew my name. I was a claustrophobic swine peddler with Portuguese underpants. I’d wander the streets in the hot August moonlight & look for my reflection in steamy dog urine. Sometimes the face looking back was familiar like a jaundiced lumberjack. On other occasions, a hairy pine cone glared back with obvious hate & repulsion.
The first time I grew a beard, the planet rattled like a desperate anaconda with a belly full of cannibal rats. The orbit’s manic path zigged instead of zagged. I wanted to applaud, but all I got was a clap.