Wednesday, September 23, 2015


Sometimes I just want to be foul : saunter along
with some miserable curse-words spouting; be one
of those Princeton guys caught groping some girl's
buttocks, come right from the headlines into the
frying pan. Why not then? I lose things like I
lost my mind. I am the slim-slam the flim-flam 
man, the black guy with swagger and baggy pants
down to my knees, walking in what most looks
to be a sideways direction while I mumble. I am
the delinquent driver, with a passenger who takes
a baseball bat to every curbside mailbox we ever 
pass at night. Lock up your daughters, everybody.
What's the use of anything? 50 years of schooling
and they put you on the forklift  - well something
like that. I popped a hole in my neighbor down the
street's boat bottom; three-quarter inch drill bit clear 
on through. He'll go boating, but he won't be back. 
Where is he? I don't know; I lose things.

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