Saturday, April 16, 2016


If you can grant me magic on
your catamaran, I'll tell you how
I learned my craft. I can write like
a weasel and just as fast. Scratch,
scratch, the elusive pen on the
non-existent paper.
I dream of loving you, and then I 
see the loss it would be. We'd both
be bereft of all we've learned to see.
The man with the milk-white face,
he's always whistling that very same
tune. Like a theme song from The 
Titanic or whatever, you know
that boat that went down after
hitting Titanium. Or something
like that.
How he can manage the same notes 
every day is beyond me. Have I ever 
told you this here used to be a bookstore, 
back in 1970? I used to haunt this West
Broadway, all along here, like a scoundrel.
Before it was anything  - a sick collection
of worn out industrial lofts mostly emptied
of any tenants. No one knew what to do
anymore anyway. What to make 
in places like these?
Some said ball bearings. Others said
plaster-casts. Still others thought that
supplies for the theater and its productions,
props and false weapons and all of that stuff,
would be great. Me? I wanted granular cheese.
I thought that would be fun to make. Now, the
entire street smells like it anyway, and it all sells
for like twenty-seven bucks a pound, and rising.
If you can, think  -  think of how I should have
started doing all of this long, long ago.

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