Wednesday, March 19, 2014

5196. STOOL PIGEON

STOOL PIGEON
I know what that means  -  that filthy bird
that hangs around shit. The flowers are all
gone and I don't care. Pavement and the
workers that go with it have come to town;
they've replaced many lawns with lumber.
Small cars owned by students boarding in
the rooms above are cluttering the lots along
the way  -  I can see the people coming down 
to the streets; upon their places and upon their
ways. To something else I'd guess, but not
guess at. I wonder why it's me who gets all
the space to tell these tales, make these words.
Back in Bayonne I can remember my own;
my grandmother  -  saying she was going to
the 'terlet to make water.' How is it that people
speak their natural language so strangely? Or is
 it not natural at all? Sometimes I knew what
she was going to say before she said it and it
was all nothing at all. Strange ways and I am
bereft. I have no honor; left at the gate as it 
was. My home was a great arm, which I used
to maneuver things around me  -  to get me out 
of place and bring me along to something else.
The men of Art, and all their boozing women.


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