There’s a growing clamor toss all the poets in the              slammer to bring down hard that poet-pounding hammer. Every Goddamn thing you do no is on “Candid Camera.” The Grim Reaper he took away Ozzie, you know the Oz-Man & then @ about the same time, we got Bozman.* Ain’t that sort of shit awesome?

A tan woman decked all in black, her head shaved like for chemotherapy, limps by barely able to walk, a half-drunk fifth of clear booze in her left hand a walking cane in her right. I watch her struggle up the street hoping I don’t have to call 911 then run to her aid. Life & Death are always on parade @ the Junctiion,

which is some kinda microcosm of a quite modest working-class existence, that is the vastly priveleged Nothern Hemisphere. My little pen must think it queer to stop w/o a braking-point near on this day so hazy-queer. I don’t wish to be horiffic, horendous nor stupendous.

But I do wanna write shit that will really send-us SWOOSH! Like the sending email sound on one program on my MAC. You see old Mister Natural was right; we all  gotta “keep-on-keepin’-on.” How frequently my rap now leads me back to “Poetic-Resurrection.”

Which is where I wanna be because it is now our one & only chance. The postal carrier arrives, today a lovely red-head w/ a smile that melts this o’ soul. We exchange pleasantries & then she left swaying down Grant Street, a dicatomous opposite

of the “lady in black” limping the other way striking that Holland-tee Junctiion balance, a new balance arrived @ through dogged persistence & through an insistence on staying the narrow course twixt the Devil & the Deep Blue Sea & “there’s no place else on earth that I would rather be.”

*Bozman is the new born son of our dear friends Alexis &  Andrew Splendorio. He was not breathing when born but suffered no damage.

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