THE IRON DIRIGIBLE MADMAN
Rexroth is dead, Ashbery, Ferlinghetti,
Ken Koch and Kerouac too. It seems
like this world's an empty place for an
iron-dirigible man; always landing
flat and straight to the ground.
Lakehurst, here I come.
-
I wander like a crazy-man now:
There's no justice in the cereal aisle,
no numbers by the counter and no
signs near the watermelons. If I were
to light a barbecue flame with the
things they sell - lighter fluid,
charcoal briquettes (always hated
that word), what would it get me?
-
In these hinterlands there's nothing,
and in the cities they claim you
can't buy that stuff, even though
I'm sure you can, anywhere.
-
Outside the police station, some
kids had a lemonade stand. Girls.
Not to be sexist but they did it to
themselves. Nearby, the boys were
playing six-gun games with their
imitation pistols. Nothing I could
do but just keep walking on.
-
Thinking thoughts along the way:
Why doesn't someone come up with
a type-keyboard that also has keys
for the most-used combinations of
letters, like 'ch' for, say, chair; or 'tr'
for triple or transport. Things like
that. Seems it could work and
be helpful.
-
('I think this Iron-Dirigible guy
has too much time on his hands').
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