I'VE WON THE
WILD MACABRE
My legs are still locked around luck and - as
luck would have it - I purposely have nothing
to say. An errant constitution is okay. Much like
that Vietnam vet I know on a Staten Island beachfront,
right by the Alice Adams House, I too sit straddling
two worlds. Flags and jackets and weapons and chains;
memories of the ladle, dipping soup for others to taste.
If you get near the guy, he just goes on, starts talking, a
rant for five minutes and another lecture for an hour -
how his own country betrayed him and chopped him down;
how's he got nothing left but an old, mad mind; how they
send people out now to try and round him up, take him
in; except that's what he thought he fought for, the right
to do this, live like that, be this way. He's dismayed.
I'm OK? What's the difference anyway? I can come
and, I guess, but he's for free and I have to pay.
I've won the wild macabre, I live on a new
frontier, I count my blessings in a hand
of goodness and a suit of gold.
My legs are still locked
around luck.
No comments:
Post a Comment