9433. HANDED FROM WILBERSON

HANDED FROM WILBERSON

Mystery of all mysteries, I sit in

this fabled chair, Again. Alone.

Like a tyrant or a fabled tiger

from Asia. Paper. Tiger. My

motto is, 'Let them do it alone.'

As the tattoo on Lanny's forearm

says. It's in a form of pidgin

English. Looks. More. Like

Gibberish. Or Dilligaf, which

was big in the biker world 50

years ago. Boy, I could never

get that one. 'Does It Look Like

I Give A Fuck.' Yeah, that's what

it meant but you were supposed

to know that and not ask. I

guess now the new kids use

LMFAO. Same thing?

-

Well, I gotta say, what do I care?

I dislike the world  -  was going to

say 'hate,' instead of dislike, but

why commit so wholeheartedly?

Especially if I'm not supposed

to care. Either way, six will get

you ten. Like the billboards used

to say, 'Things go better with Coke.'

Or, as they say it now, TGBWC.

-

What whacko shit is everywhere. 

No one knows me like I know 

myself, and I can't get anyone going

anyways. All today's kids want to 

do is meet their peers and disappear.

Me? I'd like to stay around : got gas

in the car, a bunch of stuff to read,

food to eat, and some people around

who love me, enough anyway to let

me be. And that's the main condition.

As. I. It. See.

-

I want to start a movement, begin a

revolution, preach insurrection to the

crowds. But I can't even get a nod

from an abbot; a freaking monk won't

notice me. Nobody reads what I write.

It dies like some bad fruit on a limb,

still hanging there by late November.

No one sends me cards or letters. The

real kind I mean, on paper and a stamp.

It's no secret where I live, I think I've

made that clear. Now, this late hour

beckons. Every Night. All. Over.

Again. I ought to do something

about it.  Get a new address,

I guess.

-

There's a bag of Kingsford Charcoal

on my neighbor's porch. They left

it there the other day, when the

delivery guys brought the new

Weber in. I could steal it, the

charcoal; but what would I do?

I've got nothing to burn and I don't

don't eat meat  -  that's the stuff

you grill, I suppose.

-

There are certain dichotomies I'm

always trying to divest myself of.

The bearer of life is the same

as the bearer of death. Two sides of

the whole. That's. Us. I. Figure.

Duality like that can pin-prick a

bubble and make it go out.