September 2, 2001

  • Running amuck in the hood
    and I almost forgot what this is all about…
    which is to…???


    Oh hell, what did my friend say?  Oh yes, he said: “You don’t remember, but I do.  The night that Ms. Lynn Thomas, the only fucking girl ever to be designated a Playboy Playmate and a Penthouse Pet came up behind you, put her arms around you, and said ‘What’s happenin’, Foot Boy?’”


    So I’m the Foot Boy??  Ah yes, the thing for feet!  But that’s, well, in the past….


    Do you see the woman running?  She’s running to the TV in the other room to concurrently  whistle to the Alfred Hitchcock “Good Evening” tune that’s playing!   hahhaha


    These words are almost as disconnected and disjointed as a ghost parting from the planet.  See the thought form, cogitate, and dissipate as one must.  In endless, upset, imperfect disgust.


    Foot Boy!  Yes, she was swooning naked in front of me and all I noticed was her feet!



    Buckle my shoes.


    Yellow, pink, and polka-dot fantasies crowd my cranium.


    ONE, TWO


    Just making myself relevant
    Working for a B.A. in Psychology.
    BSing my way through with Sulph and Phets,
    Sputtering senseless spew to late playing rock records
    And long burning electric oil lamps.


    ONE, TWO


    Late-raiding beautiful dorms—us frats—with all sorts of roarities,
    Pillow fights,
    And lovers in the night,
    Here’s Shakespeare writing my biography,
    And Milton.


    Milton Berle at the Friday night drive-in
    Singing Texaco songs,
    While we pubic throngs keep bopping under the moon
    In a gourging delight.


    ONE, TWO


    Drinking-driving on Mad Dog dibbings,
    Cruising around the town,
    Then needing to fill-fuel my machine, filling-her-up,
    And excusing myself for an abrupt—
    Throw up  Throw up  Throw up


    Damned 3.2


    Screwing my accumulative—
    Not enough to make the Dean’s List,
    So?
    So pushing myself a little harder, faster, farther,
    Burning my ass under a cindering sun,
    And barely making the Team,
    Until I’m cutting classes.


    ONE, TWO


    Rose-colored contact lenses meet a girl at the Drop Inn
    With legs spread wide beckoning me to her apartment,
    And all night just laying there,
    Working on my thesis,
    Jesus,


    ONE, TWO


    On through Graduate School,
    Finishing touches
    And old hat down pat,
    Until I graduate
    And done,
    I’m out into the world
    A bum.


    Foot Boy!
     

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