RINGLOLEVIO
Read on the porch, while standing up. I went all the way
out to Portland New Jersey for that one, just looking for
things, finding old me who could tell me what's up. I found an
old man in a ragged antique store, selling anything leftover that
came his way and, apparently too, he thought would sell. That
usual assortment of dead-beat shit - glasses that magnified for
reading, old records albums of Vic Damone, tea cozies and
bottles of milk from long-gone dairies. I didn't know anything,
was just looking for this commune's old farm. 'Oh yeah, you mean
that one, that guy who wrote, I think, what was it, I'll Sleep Where
I Fall. Christ, yeah, we knew them all back in the day. What was
that, '71, '67. I forget. They had them girls, sprightly little things,
they'd walk around here to get groceries and stuff, nearly nothing
on, or then nothing underneath anyway - these great big floppy
gown type things, with nary a stitch underneath. I remember, the
light would catch them in just such a way and we'd all get a show :
those little mounds of tit, that hairy clump of bush. Yeah, don't
sound like much now, but then - whew - the town council
meetings on Tuesdays, they get all a'flutter. All for nothing
anyway, them girls never did a thing 'cept, I guess, fuck hard all
their commune men. Beats me, now, and so did then.' I laughed
back at his face, telling my own stories : 'I was there, yeah, some
of that was me, yeah, all together cool enough. We came up from
east 3rd, Christ Almighty with them girls in a bushel! All they
ever wanted to do was to fuck and suck for free food and a
baby! That was '71, exact; we was among the first up here,
setting up for free, on Peter Coyote's family farm. He made
that name up, by the way - and you probably know that.'
out to Portland New Jersey for that one, just looking for
things, finding old me who could tell me what's up. I found an
old man in a ragged antique store, selling anything leftover that
came his way and, apparently too, he thought would sell. That
usual assortment of dead-beat shit - glasses that magnified for
reading, old records albums of Vic Damone, tea cozies and
bottles of milk from long-gone dairies. I didn't know anything,
was just looking for this commune's old farm. 'Oh yeah, you mean
that one, that guy who wrote, I think, what was it, I'll Sleep Where
I Fall. Christ, yeah, we knew them all back in the day. What was
that, '71, '67. I forget. They had them girls, sprightly little things,
they'd walk around here to get groceries and stuff, nearly nothing
on, or then nothing underneath anyway - these great big floppy
gown type things, with nary a stitch underneath. I remember, the
light would catch them in just such a way and we'd all get a show :
those little mounds of tit, that hairy clump of bush. Yeah, don't
sound like much now, but then - whew - the town council
meetings on Tuesdays, they get all a'flutter. All for nothing
anyway, them girls never did a thing 'cept, I guess, fuck hard all
their commune men. Beats me, now, and so did then.' I laughed
back at his face, telling my own stories : 'I was there, yeah, some
of that was me, yeah, all together cool enough. We came up from
east 3rd, Christ Almighty with them girls in a bushel! All they
ever wanted to do was to fuck and suck for free food and a
baby! That was '71, exact; we was among the first up here,
setting up for free, on Peter Coyote's family farm. He made
that name up, by the way - and you probably know that.'
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