I really want to get this going....

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Monday, September 21, 2009



Oh well there’s a slacker in the kitchen on some tear and with a mission – eating cauliflower on the run YET no never mind I remember it all and still see the bright white cab riding off towards 33rd with three people inside and everyone talking as much with their hands as with their mouths – traveling foreigners dignitaries with panache open-mouthed malarkeys who defenestrate at will and call the local gendarme by his name and two other guys reading The Irish Echo outside Malarchy’s where Jack Dempsey’s used to be and I have to ask myself – with a modicum of verve – what stillness it is which keeps me company now how straight can I walk how high can I stand and whatever should be done about bad posture but no answers worth the almighty something ever arise and instead of that THREE TURKEYS IN THE DEN are seen and Frank Middlehut from the Cigar Center walks by smoking and nods my way but the only Cuban bastard I’ve ever seen was Carmella’s nasty father in his limousine (or was it a hearse?) as he rode by with flowers on the roof and me and Carmella clutching under the brightly patterned Spanish sheets and she fucked like a squid and screamed like a toad but really nailed my back like a monster lizard from Hell but no you never mind they’re eating cereal and saltines by the backdoor watching the kids take their very first steps OVER AND OVER on some camcorder tape totally boring and liquid as hell but that’s the way people are now DESPOILED and solid or hidden in the hedges outside Security Steel (whatever that ever meant all my tawdry life now it’s torn up and vacant under a Sunday sun with a For Sale Commercial Lease sign in the driveway and nothing to be done) and Truman Capote himself came by with Rona Marriotte and her sister Sam wincing carolettes grandly in an off-key fashion saying ‘where can we find the grave of Dudley Moore?’ and only I answered back ‘that’s Deadly Moore forevermore quoth the pavement and he’s in the back’ and they scurry off as Capote winks in a big-eyed stare but a ten-spot keeps him quiet in the wintry cold and I’ve gotten so tired it seems of the sacred and serious that I’d joke over the funeral of the Pope himself if only something funny would happen there and ‘how much money does the country hold ? as much as you want and just as old!’ I bet you’ve heard that one before ten million times and more…oh well.


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