671. TARISH DELAMP, WRITER

TARISH DELAMP, WRITER
His stream of consciousness
has become a muddy swamp.
I noticed it first at the Sundance Dance.
He stood there limp, dragging on some
big girl's shoulder. She took it all in,
but he never shut up, calling her
names, lovely things, declaiming
her breasts as 'the things Heaven
brings.' It went on like that
all night. From that point on,
I decided his degeneration
had reached a point of
segregation. I walked
him away, popped him
on the head, and sat him
down on the new
purple couch.
-
He smiled, looking upward
at me. 'If you could only see
the things I see,' he said;
to no one else but me.