Thursday, September 22, 2016


I want to sleepwalk past this attic yard
before the watchman comes. I've
kind of had it with all his antics:
using a Brillo pad as an eraser on
some kid's face, beating the cat
with a clipboard, and laughing
to a scat-sung protest song.
There's nothing of value in his
swamp at all  -  try and sell it as 
he might. I've had my lingering
doubts about him since the start.
Vain and pompous. Showing off
his bookshelves made by slave labor
in some hideaway Brooklyn loft.
Playing five-card stud with a
die-hard crud. That's the
best comparison I can make.
Then they say, 'Well why then did
you do it?' I did it for the easel, OK?
I did it for the money and guns, for
the poor in Guatemala, those miserable
people in their squalid slums, I did it for
the intake, I did it for the exhaust, at
all hours, at any cost, and let me add
Ramona, his wife, who never squealed
on me all those times in that useless
sloppy conference room.

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