FRAMED AT IMPATICO PLAZA
And I wasn't even there; never went. Got too drunk the
night before and passed out on the weasel-wench loading
dock, where the held the parasol, for hours, over my sleeping
head. Big joke. Pink umbrella. Sleeping drunk. So, anyway,
like a mime at the supermarket pointing at peas, there I was.
I never got where I was going. And I wasn't even there.
-
The north coast, it was reported, was always the roughest one :
all those nasty pines and the big, sluggard oaks; things that bend
and twist in a very bad wind. They can withstand most anything.
Except the treeman's humming chainsaw death : wallowing in
its wail, slicing like lemons this bark for a drink. Everything
that goes up but soon enough comes down. Timber.
-
I was still drunk, two days later : read the note you left me
but didn't understand. What's a kerfuffle cookie? What's a
jealousy muffin? All this shit I never understand. While over
in Red Hook, I'd parked my car at Fairway, and actually
did go inside for coffee and rolls. I made a purchase. I
wasn't dumb, nor was I drunk. They towed my car anyway.
Fearsome fucking bastards that they are. Fearsome scum.
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