5251. YOU CAN'T OWN CERTAINTY

YOU CAN'T OWN CERTAINTY

Rabid clown and Morpheus too. I can't distill the

difference, can't see the remaining ends, nor the

path to get me there. The rollicking good time of 

the white picket fence reminds me of 1956 all 

over again : the Eames Chair, La Chaise, and

all that. Walking down that street now, I see

nothing but horror and sorrow. 'Art is dead', the

pickle-brained one says, standing out front with

a plastic sign. 'Maybe yours' I tell him, bashing out

his front teeth with a stick. 'That's a performance

piece, asshole.' I figured he'd call the Rockefeller

boys on his Babi Yar cellphone in an instant.

-

Speaking of those Rockefellers; makes me think

of Nelson  -  and all this is true. I was drinking one

day in a Second Ave bar, up here in the east 50's, and

the old guy next to me began talking. His nose was

dripping a clear liquid, the whole time, like a drop on

the end, constantly. Unnerving. But he went on : he'd

been the butler in Abbot and Costello Meet the Wolfman,

or Frankenstein, or something. That was his job, his part;

always a weird butler in cheap films. Governor Rockefeller,

(you can look this up) died on the floor of his 50's townhouse,

 in flagrant delicto (fucking) his assistant, one Megan Marshak.

-

She'd never been heard from since. I asked about that as 
the conversation wended its way around the delicate subject. 
Turned out this guy knew her, she was fat now, and she lived 
upstairs, a few buildings away, in a Rockefeller townhouse. 
It was given to her, back then, along with  a settlement, 
to shut up, never speak of the matter, and never be 
publicly seen or heard from again. Pretty freaky.