THE TRIP-POST
No Marjorie Morningstar here,
just more like an Emily Post.
No Lone Ranger either, though
maybe Zorro? Or The Joker?
How do I know these things,
and why? What settles in a
brain from the gas of media
illusion? The overflowing and
the ludicrous : trite and useless
matter. I sit here, on some old
corner in a dump-ass country
town, where coal roads and
rail-lines once met, and think
of nothing but the past. Where
the shimmering ladies cooked,
the men all held shovels and had
black and grimy faces, with
which they trudged on home
from work. And when I say
work, I mean it.
-
No polished techies there; no
glum philosophers with their
black coffees and absinthe. And
those shimmering ladies, probably
more like shuddering; in the
light of reality's day.
No comments:
Post a Comment