Prose by Sean Ruane

Monkeys of Man

Monkeys beat bongo riffs on a fallen wooden woman, echoing the sound of man through the round music of her breasts;

flightless sugar-free gum chewing nonbird percussionists discomfit a wooden curator of monkeys as he hides behind a wall of musical instruments, tossing them into the cage to see if there are any they’d rather play…he should have never tossed in his wooden wife who hid among the woodwinds and snare drums.

The wooden woman sounds like the grundling of an old trunk, so carelessly the monkeys employ their mad rhythms…

…the wooden curator tosses in a trombone and cigarettes, hoping, instead, that these are jazz monkeys.

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