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.