Sunday, December 13, 2015


When the milkman comes calling, and the 
cat's got your tongue, the car garage won't open 
and air is miserable with misanthropic hate,
come running back. Whatever's happening 
hereabouts in nothing compared to what
I've heard. Car-horns that blink. Men in
a cave. The essence of living is Life.
Running down to Red Bank on some fantastic
afternoon  -  vegetable market people milling about:
pasta-man, the girl with butter and cream, the eggs
and the farm ham, the chestnut guy selling walnuts 
instead. Oh, man, how can I ever keep up? Then, five 
baguettes in a bag later, I'm still running in place.
The constable comes down from the stairway where they're
building a new Triumph Brewery. A bunch of beers to be
for a bunch of queers to see, I'm guessing. He doesn't
rightly care about none of that, as long as the laws are
kept. Things are easy like that in his live-to-let-live
world. Jelly and raspberries and crinkle-cut cheese.
He's got a fat wife at home and two kids more.
I wrecked my world in a crash a hundred years ago  - still
picking up pieces but nothing much fits. I palm a fifty
from the thin girl's pile  -  she's wearing nothing but 
pride. I'll be back in  a while.

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