Thursday, January 23, 2014

4960. MOST OF THE HANDS

MOST OF THE HANDS
Most of the hands are strangers, guys just hanging
around, off a little bus that drops them off  -  implements
and their tools and wrappings, and weird little plastic
buckets with their lunches and stuff. Eating out of
plastic suitcases here in another land. Home? Home
to what? That little lassie with the monster butt
and tight jeans, yeah, she came off the bus with 
them. Beats me. Sure ain't like listening to Neil 
Young or something fanciful like that. She probably
works a kitchen somewhere.
-
Now, for me, it's just like headlines on an old
newspaper  -  stale and shitty and making little
sense. Names age and fly away, time marks its
decrepitude on everything that happens. All the
news that's fit to shit on. These field guys do it
in the meadow or on the lea. Who knew.
-
Mr. John, Porta-John, Mr. Toilet, Cheek-To-Cheek.
In America, my God you've just got to get used to
plastic. I'm so sorry to droop. I'm so tired to drop.
Those little guys are going by again  -  laughing aloud,
and talking to each other in their own damned language.


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