MENTION ME
Mention me at the Mennonite factory and what
it will get you? A few bonnets, some chow-chow, and
an open -faced apple pie cooling on the sill. No one cares
for really real things. Ephemeral mention, like some drawn
magazine profile of a screen-star in her dishabille - all that
cleavage and the bare-bottom'd protusion splashed like
a road map on a very glossy page - brings forth nothing
but the lurid task of easy men drooling. Circumstantial
evidence? Yes, he did it in advance of thinking, I'm sure.
-
In the distant American past, people dropped kids like
pieces of water, things from the well, coins in a fountain -
some of them lived on, many others died at birth. All those
colonial graveyards, when I look now, are filled with dead
children at six months old, eighteen days old, one and a half
paltry years. they are buried with those little bonnets on;
oftentimes, I note as well, with their dead mothers at their side.
It's all amazing. It's all just the way things always are.
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