Friday, July 7, 2017


Down in Chinatown, they hang the
roasted ducks by the neck  -  it ain't
pretty, but what the heck. I don't eat
flesh myself, trying not for any dead
matter. Anything that once had life,
that final fatal bleep before they go,
by claw, by hammer, or electric shock,
I can pass on easily. I just hate to dwell
on grief. Once, when my own kid was
ten, in Chinatown once, looking at dead
foodstuffs hanging everywhere, he turned
to me and said, 'gar, (he always called me
that; it was never 'Dad'), the Chinese are
exceedingly gross.' Interesting statement.
I'm gonna' go somewhere else, where the
paintings aren't purple and pink. Where
I can maybe make my way past the 
standing crowd, and draw me some
water, down at the creek.

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