Missing Screws and Matching Socks

I keep my dreams in a coffee can,
with all my teeth and my master plan.
I wear pajamas made of thoughts,
and sleep in shoes that never rot.

I told the preacher I’m a priest,
he blessed my cactus and called the beast.
I said, “Amen” in Morse code coughs,
then shaved my sins into stubbled quaffs.

Missing screws and matching socks,
they say I’m nuts, but I pick the locks.
Life’s a box with a bloody fox–
and I just gave him paradox.

My neighbor’s cat gives legal advice,
he told me dreams are made of mice.
And I agreed, with a tearful nod,
then signed a treaty with the god of sod.

Can’t tell if I’m cursed or cured,
but either way, I’m well-assured.
If madness is a party trick,
I’m the magician and the lunatic.