DOWN THE RIVERS OF EAST
There's nothing where I live except crackers and
corn. My cupboards have been nailed shut and
given over to mice and vermin from the other side.
I really don't care - these cigarette-shaped lips
are now languid and edged with calm. I've done it
all and all is over. Living here is a sequence of rest.
Some now-and-then boats go by - with criminals for
captains they may as well be barges of evil setting out
on a cruise. Malaysian pirates? No worries there either;
there's nothing to take. Like my own Huck Finn, I keep
time with my creative subconscious named Injun Jim,
or Nigger Jim, if you still wish. Old Mark Twain's
names have been twisted and turned already so much
that nothing natters now. Down the rivers of east, we all
float - Huck, Jim, Mark, and me. Samuel Clemens
brings along the booze and cards. I have nothing
but distant clouds in mind, things floating high
over this river of time; all down these
rivers of east.
No comments:
Post a Comment