ALL THE TOTEMICS OF
A GOOD MALARKEY
In the shade of the palm tree you make even the
sailboats in this leaky harbor take notice. In fact,
they crane their necks; those little souls of wood
and plastic, those craft made up for wind on water.
It's all in the way things are explained, I think.
My breast stroke, to your doggie-paddle.
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In this part of the world, one good turn deserves
another - I'm not so sure that holds now anywhere
else. In Brooklyn and Queens they dessicate the
deli-counter. In Syracuse and Akron, they slice
water with a ladle and bring home the cream. Back
again in Manhattan, they manhandle everything
and call it right by calling things foul. I no longer
know, but I do not worry; the poet-laureate is a
Mexican, so I already feel secure about my
own, personal borders. I feel the hate.
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Line them up and cut them open. How much sugar is
in the recipe now? Did you make the dough fresh again
this morning? Or are we rolling yesterday's product here?
Will anyone know? Can we get away with this? It'll be
okay, no problem, once it's baked and finished.
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One time my father came home with the wrong car. We
never knew how he did it, never. No one ever called to
say they had his, where was theirs, who's got the wrong
keys? It was all bizarre. Then the next day he took that
car to work and came back home that night with his
own again. No one ever said. No one was talking.
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