Friday, August 21, 2015


My mind is a fortress and outside the walls are men
looking back at me from their horses. They stare, and
then spit on the ground. I pretend I cannot see, and that
satisfies them. Behind them, as if on a scrim, runs the
noise and movement of the NJ Turnpike : somewhere
I seldom venture, where trucks run bent and cars are
lethal fractures. If the fabric of time can be rent, it
would from here the doing would be done. All the
trees hereabouts have been sickened and are dying.
The old apartments houses seem to lean, and the
donut people still line the Dunk-o-Rama, not
like they used to thirty-five years ago, 
but they're there. But today, no one
in there smokes. 
On the overhead sound system is heard some really
old song  -  a Tin Pan Alley thing, like 'Always.'
That confuses me too much, because all those
levels of overlapped time seem now only to get
captured by quaint, shiny entertainers, something
like Harry Connick, Jr., or someone, the kind who sing
for money and bend to the bows as a girl would, who
couldn't swing a mallet for shit. Girl-guys, that's it!
My undershirt is stained with sweat, and even somehow my
balls are sweaty  -  but I stay here no matter. If I can imagine
a winter coat, and big heaves of snow, I'm thinking I'll be OK.

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