the staid, crunchy workhorse

The Staid, Crunchy Workhorse

Every day at the same time, the old man walked through

whatever else it might be, it was definitely "heavy." It wasn't like

the ultimate act of art. Dada sacrifice!

Don't let me tell you what we do with duct tape

following my imaginary trail of crumbs. Past all the

animal impressions: walrus, swan, earthworm. Then

if things aren't going well, we change jerseys in the middle of

one according to what sort of mood I was in. But out here it's

when the revisionist surgeons of the urban hospital insisted that

the black man was jogging along Drayton, having already made

borderline blondes with blue eyes

regardless of race, creed, color--or genus.

Indicted for writing worthless checks,

all I can really call to mind

imitated the shriek of a jaguar set afire.

It's: Somebody, an ordinary person.