PULLING A DIME
No I'm not happy about anything
what do want me to do pull this
piggish trigger while not looking
at you? Hope my aim is errant and
the bullet goes askew? It only takes
one and I've probably got six. To
dismember this heating-pad life
I won't need that many. Quick
as a wink, I'll be gone.
-
I can subsist on thinly made
toast. Maybe then I should just
go off with a loaf of bread and
a toaster to some far-off and
abandoned mountain lodge -
I know of a few along that
Catskill road where no one
ever comes by. Way out on
a 1940's curve, maybe once
some miners lived there or
killers or thieves. No more.
-
No more, because they don't
make that kind any more. Those
guys who pick their teeth with
Bowie knives and then wonder
where they've gone as the tobacco
spittle starts leaking out as they
try to talk from where those
teeth used to be. Talk! If you
can call it that.
-
I'm sick enough of everything
to drown myself in running water
if it weren't so God-damned cold,
and what sense does that make?
What a stupid thought - it you're
gonna drown yourself to death
(which is the only kind of 'drowning'
there is, as I see it), why worry about
a 40-degree Catskill river. Some
things, no, never make sense.
-
I'm a slot machine daddy for a long
time ago - like when pulling a dime
was worth a good time. Now it's six
dollars and it don't come with meat.
The Ski-Ball chutes are closed and
the retarded guy with the coin apron,
the freak who used to collect the
walking money, they say he's moved
off now, to Arizona and a better clime
where he can hack and spit for free
'neath palm trees and cacti and all
that Southwestern shit that runs in
dreams, from Tuscon and Almogordo
to Los Angeles and Malibu Beach.
-
I got a friend there; Christ, what a geek.
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