Thursday, September 24, 2015


On the sopping muddy road
home post-war,
met a man—

yet cartoony—

and dried-

out like 
a tough bit 
of old liver sausage would be—

and with damp gauzy medieval 
claptraps of shoes 
on each foot

that happened to hamper even
the decisiveness 
of his limp;

and as we passed 
he said 
to me—

but only
with his one 
protruding eyeball,

and with 
the little filthy 
harmonica at his lips—

it ain't enough 
to have good ideas—or consistently.

You have
to learn how 
to have quick ones—and shit 'em out constantly;

not to mention the gumption,
the start-up cash,
and all that machinery.

And one more thing!
he whistled: 
a gimmick—

somethin' silvery 
slick—to distract 'em
from the stink

of the attack 
that you're leveling—such as 
a charmin'—

colloquial way of speakin'.