(last call for the motorcade)
My hands are on fire, my shirt's now adrift :
the running of the Pamplona bulls has nothing
on this. I lost my last ID card in the circus tent
- now even I don't know who I am.
Nor what is meant.
Let me shrug these circumstances off. I can explain
it easily away - it was in the early morning light
as I was standing outside the candy store; a few
stragglers were drifting by, I think from their
night before. The usual crowd of simpletons:
some guy spewing about vodka, another guy ranting
about the girl he'd lost, a clutch of dazed females, now
dishevelled and coarse. I love it when the female mouth
turns sour; words sideways, profanities and hates.
They had a car, these ladies, it seemed waiting for
them - some call-for-hire dimwit, chewing gum.
My lawsuit, if it ever reaches the higher court, will be about
the foulness of this world and all the damage it's done to me.
I want the retirbution of a real outsider : ten billion moments
alone, and twenty bucks for the back pocket of my own
new pants. (Then I'll grapple with the rest, and
let 'living' have its chance).