Friday, September 23, 2016


I am a mannerism of one : sliding
a pencil along a long, dark chute.
Holding red bread under the open
fauceting water. You know no one 
speaks like that, but maybe they 
oughtt'a  -  harm comes to the
cyclist, and the pedestrian too.
It was April, the year of the first.
No saying what, just the year of
the first. The sidewalks had 
thawed. The buses still ran to
Perth Amboy. Most all things
seemed old and settled in. 
I used to work, in Amboy, 
across from the synagogue, 
when there was a synagogue 
there. Now there's nothing,
and all those old ancients are
gone as well. It was just an
office , selling subscriptions.
No big deal at all.
But that young Winter, I hated
that space  -  and would walk 
outside instead. I'd rather door to
door, walking the neighborhoods
and all those Spanish wives - not
knowing, only half understanding
what I was trying to sell. Good
Housekeeping, Women's Day
(Dia Senorita!?). What did I
know. They'd nod.
Sometimes they'd sign a little
subscription book, fork over
my $7.95. They'd get 9 months
of that shit, in the mail. Like
carrying a kid made out of paper. 
'Buenas Dias, Mamacita!'

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