Saturday, April 16, 2016

8047. IF YOU CAN, THINK

IF YOU CAN, THINK
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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