IN ONE HUNDRED
OTHER WAYS
My tongue has fallen out of my mouth, and I am
speechless though I am not. I talk yet. Gibberish
works. I can remember being a stupid eight year
old - the big joke around town was holding onto
one's tongue while speaking 'My father works in
a ship factory, making ships all day long.' Of
course, it came out, 'my father works in a shit
factory, making shit all day long.' Or so we
claimed. Laughable, crazy risibility then.
-
It's now so different now : one can tour the
Andes on a group archaeological vacation. Being
watched all the time, I guess, that you take nothing
away. There's a thrill. In 1967, my boss Jim Rattigan,
basically a bowling-league drunk working a print-shop
as boss, went on vacation to South America and was
killed on some beach in Peru - by a poison-dart an
inland native had shot at him. His family came home,
minus the boss, who shipped in later. Laughable, crazy
risibility then, but true. How things happen? Unknown too.
-
I think I'll go to Cambodia, touring. Battambang, Siem
Riap, Phnom Banan, Udong, and Phnom Penh. Pol Pot
long gone, I bet I can get there for a song.
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