Reynard Seifert

I’m afraid of the people who cut my lawn. I have a stack of magazines on my toilette-top that no one will read. I am twenty-three years obsolete. I have a patch beard when I try to grow one. I’m not Jesus, not even close. I’m a child, a loser, a menace, an enigma wrapped in a leopard-print coonskin pillbox coat wrapped in an enigma. I feed idiocyncratic birds in my backyard. I hate squirrels. They only love themselves. They are selfish beings. Their selfish nature reflects my own and it makes me sad. So I hate them. Sometimes my shit smells good – I know that’s weird, but really, it’s sweet like bread that’s been left to mold – usually it just smells like shit though.