ALL THOSE INCIDENTALS
I get tired of talking. From
Encenitas up to San Jose, or
Mt. Marcy way down to
the Delaware Bay, someone's
always yapping like they had
something to say. To me, the
life here is just a comedy routine;
cute or clever, puns or double
meaning. 'What was that you
said? It's gone straight to my
head!' My own meager push
is towards darkness.
-
How can I enter this tomb while
still living? See there's a paradox
I can happily present. The red
Buick, or the old car clown,
people mingle, just hear the
sound. State Fair, County Fair,
The Carnival of St. Ignatius.
-
It's all around, this madness with
its chill. Standing on the side of
the highway, I'm assaulted - by
fragments, by pieces of things
never done nor completed. We
start at the first hard mile, but
it's suppose to get easier from
there?
-
Now I'm watching three horses
in the field. Right next to the
Old Indian Graveyard. Which
isn't that at all. They didn't have
graveyards and any fool can tell
you that. Why bother with such
falsity? It astounds! I'll go sit on
a burial mound while all those
incidentals keep me running
around.
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