3700. TARA FARM

TARA FARM

I'm on my way down right now, trying to find a language

to get me through this interim   -  a period of time, in fact,

I am not quite sure of, whether duration or quality both.

Had I the gift of tongues, I'd talk. As it is, I can barely

read. I needed your squiggle-goggles just to get myself

this far. 'Along the way to Mandalay' - as they say.

I don't know much of that anyway, having lost that key

some long time back : when the gettings were better,

when the cooked turtles were fresh, when the sourdough

mash was still fresh enough for both bread and for booze.

-

Today is some sort of silly feast day; a saint who walked

through plate glass in a department store, a wandering

minstrel who touched women without them even knowing,

a sacred statue that came to life and won on Jeopardy;

something or other. All that colloquial shit I so forget.

Religious fanatics anyway, they make me puke. So

ancient and so sacrosanct, all that stuff they profess

to believe. Tell me this, I often say, if there's an active

God listening to this world, what's up with roadkill?

Momentary distraction? Or what? No matter, I'm

really tired of seeing it, can't figure it out in the big

picture of creation, and need to have something done

about it if you're getting me to believe in this active finger

of God crap. Making idiots rich and screamers healed.

-

I lived for a while on a place called Tara Farm.

It was a mansion made of glass bricks  -  I couldn't

see out, and no one, really, could see in either.

Nice trade off, I always thought. Now I'm gone.