5351. IN THE MIND OF ORAL MEMORY

IN THE MIND OF 

ORAL MEMORY

I don't want to hear it again : 'He's gay'; 'He's really a

loner'; 'He's like some Jeff Wring in disguise.' We have 

to sit around in circles, listening to this grubface at the

campfire spitting words. Just as it was back at old

Camp Cowaw  -  stiff flag stretched out in the breeze,

boys sitting around at dusk, some clown with the Pledge

of Allegiance. For shit to all that, I'll have none of it.

-

I came from a foreign land and to that I'll return. Now,

fifteen workers on a loading dock at once, pushing 

cartons of 'Pantonime dolls', Made in China, Not Drop.'

Well, that's what it says. I haven't a clue and neither have

they. They're doing their work, for their pay  -  and why 

care anyway what the stupid box might say?

-

There's not a pretty dowager in sight. Should there be?

This is Washington Street, now  -  all dolled up, restaurants,

pretty girls out slumming, what do they think? They look

 so fresh and clean, like hookers but not obscene. I'd want

to do them all were the chance arising. Ah! Rising!

- 

I should have taken the place of Benedict Arnold, and

I do think he had it right. Or was that Nathan Hale?

Nathan Lane? Forgive me, I forget  -  this oral history

stuff is murder on the mind, and I have but one life to give.