5197. RAINING IN THE HOLE

RAINING IN THE HOLE

It's raining in the hole and this is not the

Comstock Lode. Don't try to remember:

the guys who ran the art museum are all

dead.  What's left on the walls behind them

are just the shadowed marks where paintings 

used to hang. Dreams. Wishes. All that

fulfillment stuff. The only thing that matters in

the end is the ending. As was said by that 

Costello guy in the Boston crime movie, 

after the other  fellow at the bar says his 

mother's not doing well - 'she's on her way 

out'  -  he says 'We all are; act accordingly.'

I like that, and excuse me for being direct but

it's a hit and all men are going down.

-

Nothing to steal; my mother's jewelry box was 

filled with junk  -  costume jewelry and big, red

clip-on earrings in the shape of a rose only a clown 

would wear. I sometimes wondered why I ever 

came down that chute : made me wince and made

me cry. My origins were nothing much, but who's

to blame for that? Now I compare myself to any

of the dregs I see on 34th, and I laugh aloud.

Fat, black mamas with asses the size of Georgia,

and skinny black guys with pinpricks for eyes, doing

the sidewalk shuffle while talking loudly and looking 

for change. Money, not the other item. And I wonder

why I'm still alive : for Jesus Christ O'Malley's sake what

am I doing here? It's a hit and all men are going down.

-

The felt hat is worn like a cadaver. The black coat fits

no man at all. That woman's fake ermine rides the carp

like a taxi on a scam. The policeman is whistling his

idle tune while sizing up the post office goon, that guy

on two good legs coming down the steps. 

Grand finale, hot tamale. It's a hit and
all men are going down.