4492. FOR ALL OF THIS AND I DON'T CARE

FOR ALL OF THIS

AND I DON'T CARE

Watching the guy put up wall posters, his bucket

of glue and his long-handled brush, I see he just

swabs it on in great big swaths. The papers stay

up -  proclaiming anything they wish, advertising

anything at all : that big, hot, new fashion girl,

the barbecue fire at Randall's Southern Grille,

the stock-quote guy with his inane smiley patter.

It's all just lies, of little consequence to anything

but those great liars who contract this crud. I

could sell cripples shoes with more good-will

than this stuff has. How long, I wonder, is the

line for passage at the big maw of Death?

-

And now, as evening approaches, everything grays

out and slows down. A big, fanciful, fat full moon

slowly rises in the huggable sky. Mosquitoes fly

about, still bothering me, at least. My mother

used to say they only bite the sweet ones : what

a crock that too turned out to be. By now, oh

so many years on, I should know for sure.

-

If anyone else ever stumbled in my steps, he'd

know of what I speak  -  all these fabricated geeks,

making their time. Three-story homes and eighteen

rooms, three cars in a yellow garage with a wide

driveway they have to re-tar and seal every other

year  -  a few grinning Mexicans always at the

ready  -  they otherwise know nothing at all

and just cut everything they see. 'Let it be

dry and flat,' they say, 'like the town where

I came from, Chihuahua!'  -  and then they laugh.

Have you ever noticed, that's all they do?

-

Why do we wonder we've gone down the tubes?

Look at this mess we've allowed.

-

And I can't communicate with anyone at all.