THE TOWN AND THE CITY
Just like a Kerouac return - some flannel-shirted
nightmare on the edge of a dirty mill-river - I shall
bear my flask and drink this crappy liquor to its end.
Reaching manhood is no simpler than tasting a drunk
day forever; one thing after another, always crooked
and always wrong. There never was any mastering the
skill of scoping the sky - like an ancient with those
figures in the constellations - Orion, and the archer,
and all those outlined figments of water barrels and oxen
and sheep. In the primitive dark, much of this is pretty
simple; anything so as not to covet the darkness of
the night. Candles replaced torches, a long time back.
Now, mischief is in my club-foot; born like this, I
hobbled. I managed to stay alive. My father said
it was just luck that saved me; usually at birth a
mis-formed creature like me has its head dashed
upon the rocks. But they all got called away that
day, and when they came back from the slaughter,
no one any longer cared about me. I suckled my
mother's teats, stayed around for years - and then
when ready I just set out to live alone in the deep,
dark forest. Where they left me alone. Where they
let me be. Now, goddamn, it's 650 years later
and somehow I'm still around.
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