Three hundred words an hour, better learn to type.....
Families visited families with a boobtube, and soon
a skyline of antennas and birdshit interupted the view,
the Korean War was far away and too unpleasant
to broadcast, suburbia was spreading it's sod and
middleclass management learned to commute,
even the workingclass could afford a home
of thier own, flats were for foriegners, immigrants
that did the hard and dirty work..no blacks
just irish and italian, catholics of course...
"My heavens, but somewhat prejudiced,
church and state in a holy union but no peerage
in castles on crown land, this was a proletariat nation,"
muses the oldman gazing out over the balcony,
pigeons flapping for catfood, quiet streets below,
sunlight on cuban oregano, Chopin and Slovak
Paradise in its' second hour....
indeed, indeed, the oldman lived in a dream.
Free of other people's schedules, time to enjoy
the luxury of enjoying, those copulating verbs
so misunderstood for lack of use..
"Ho Ho, remember to remember, how curious
to be curious..," gazing out the north window
at floating poincianna limbs and swaying
palm leaves, orange blossoms long gone and
thoughts of the last month of hurricane season.
the constant dread of destruction...
"Of what, a roof, the porch and balcony,
windows and floors, gardens and fences,
furniture and appliances....Ho fucking Ho",
chuckles the oldman naked on the bed,
listening to a growling gut, as a fully loaded
cuckootrain passes babbling bullshit
to cruiseshippers gawking at paradise.
"Change your life for the better, upgrade your
standards, improve your lifestyle..",announces
the madone pretending to pretend,
certainly squandering one's thoughts in a
notebook for none to discover seems selfish,
but perhaps the concept has the purpose
of evolving out of the subconscious into a style
or even a larger theme...doing without to discover
what is truly necessary, eliminating waste
to eliminate less...
"Yeah..you fat hogs, eat less..shit less, for starters,
entertain yourself and stay at home,
maybe write read and listen to classics
and the sound of no hand clapping
...Oh oh, I couldn't be alone..
who could hear me groan...", mocks the madone
holding the broom in the hallway as the oldman's
fingers begin to cramp and he had yet to discover
why Jack Keroauc went On the Road without
a corvette on Route 66, and beatniks were said
to be a name by Herb Cain when psuedointellectuals
sat at Bandice's on Broadway picking up rich pussy
from Nob Hill, homosexuals arriving from New York
for the rennaisance, tailors for sailors, Camelot
arrived and Gore Vidal was Jackie's pet.
Johnny Mathis, of course not, Liberace was beyond,
certainly not Rock, decades before
the dark age of disease.
"But everyone is bi at Berkley",
wails the jewish girls
and the age of experimentation begins
with sex and drugs as the whores
in the tenderloin were men
decades before a clever adman
introduced the gay market.
And the oldman lived at Turk and Hyde
across from the Blackhawk.
Before Kennedy was killed.
A little sunshine for the walk