Sunday, February 5, 2017


I may be stubborn, but I make
up my mind with an earnest divide.
Like kids with a coloring book, so
intent on the color that they run off
the lines. It's only in the passing
later on  -  by those who judge  -
that any of that matters at all.
There's a green man on the corner
pumping credit into the kiosk for
parking. Unlike the old days, now
it's so much more than just plunking
quarters : there's credit, and cards,
time to record and a paper to put
on your dashboard. And some
goon comes around, as well, later,
checking that paper and the clock
it's recorded. My God, what a
dumbstrick rationalist's system.
Since we don't even know what time
is, are you sure yet you wish to force
me to buy it? As if the cadaver with
the moving mouth has caught my
every move. Like that ex-President
guy, the one from Kenya or whatever,
demanding by force of fine that I insure
my time on Earth? What kind of male-girl
he been fucking? And what's his real
intent in living here? I'll never know,
but now that bastard's on my dollar.
Oh, Susannah, oh don't you cry for me.
For I been to Alabama with my banjo
on my knee? (Pestilence, you see)?

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