Thursday, May 4, 2017


I guess they run the gamut? The
entire rash of nothing. Fur-lined
slippers? No, no, not me. Calfskin
gloves? No, no, not me. Rather
a pig-in-a-poke than a cat-in-the-hat?
Yeah, I guess, maybe, sure.
I like my milk sour. My pasta al dente.
I like my toothpaste fresh-squeezed,
and my orange-juice in a tube? I don't
know if any of that's true, or even
possible. Once I went to the Hill 
Climbs, in Freemansburg, PA.
Motorcycles everywhere, club 
guys in attendance, hatchets and
wolf calls too. Alcohol was ample,
enough anyway to get some crazy
girls disrobing in 95-degree heat.
What a crazy game that is  -  how
Bikers do that. Grizzled and bare,
gnawing on meat, campfires maybe,
and crazy, dancing girls to a live
music beat. Some say it's crazy.
others say it's neat. For me, it's
more comfort. I'll take a seat.
Yeah, man, back then, it was
a tough life, for sure.

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