Sunday Scribbling #155: I Come From

But, It’s All These

Fate deals you a dog and a street &
Voila, porn star you are—
Willard Contour, and at 458 Olmos Drive
You stop and wonder,
Roadways of stranger danger
The street smarts of adenoids
Blissfully ignorant of the
Ways and means of actuarial
Snow biz, Snopes trials
Of the beastly, the biochemical, prosciutto
Hung in the balance, if
You’re EF, then you’re from
Where you stand, but
Not all of the benighted are
So inclined, navigating by moonlight,
Asking after the calculated
Derivations of the one
True and mighty One and Only—
You crave inventions,
The crenellations, the visual
Depravity of the down and out,
Not a world you want to wear,
But it’s all these 5 and Dimes
Have to offer, ozone
Layers of frivolity,
Karaoke mamas of your good night fortune,
Shamans of the pledge of
Allocated time, Davy Crockett’s
Fine and dandy osprey,
Down the very last aisle
Of the very last basement
In the very last stacks of
The Rio San Juan.
Say a prayer, they say,
And you wonder at the audacity,
The kestrel fate that
Storms the walls
Of your last call to Jesus.
It’ll take you four days,
If you’re lucky,
& only if there are four not three
Who stroll in Monday morning,
Giorgio in his white linen,
Gasping for Galilee, ghostly
Fishbait in these feral climes.