MY WHITTLED TASTE
It all has gone down to nothing, all this :
what's left? Eyes, and words, and books.
The old kind, paper. I don't care about much
else, for my tastes have been whittled down. All
that late-night TV, that cauldron and pit of crap
I see, means death and its own minions have won.
Myriads - sick people passing, dead people awake.
The Currier and Ives of the Moneychangers anew, in
their funny-grand New England palaces resuscitated
for use : bed and breakfast, nicely alliteraltive. Why not,
'fuck and food', 'ease and eat', 'farms and fornication'?
Any of that could work as well. My taste - you can
see - has come down to nothing. I'll just park my
new Buick where the sun doesn't shine and
maybe come back some other time.
My taste has been whittled to nothing.
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