The Dull Old Drunk (On Wabasha and Seventh Street)

The desiccated old bibulous stood in the street

Abhorred he stood looking at me

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A cut finger hanging by a thread

He dejection in his pants, a car virtually hit him

His rainbow of life, now a candle partially lit-

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A empty looking in his eyes, he's flaccid on

I said!

Standing there, abhorred, superficial at me

There in the walk...there in the street

(Back in '88)...just sounding at me, me, me

The lacklustre old drunk, on Wabasha and Seventh...

streets!

#1032 12/24/05; note: sobriety is a way of life, and I can lone say for those who have tasted the animosity of the drink, I will report you now, get out of hell's grip, since it's too late; I'm recovering, had I not started 22-years ago, I'd ne'er had made it to 58 geezerhood old had I never-ending imbibing (I would have died spinal column in the past my 40th bicentennial); Merry Christmas to you; and Happy Birthday Lord. This was written one day up to that time Christmas, in St. Paul, Minnesota. Dlsiluk

The Meatpacker's Boy

[A genre Lament: in truncated genre]

'Old man,' they beckon me now, crowned with a receding hairline, a few achromatic hairs, present and there, a drought, rising covered my brain, jumbled muscles everywhere; past unimaginable, now like vapor clouds in my opinion. I see my Mother in that old divan chair, she's saying, "I never looked-for to on stage so long," how grotesque it seems now; I'm melodious the same old song (I suspect I'm in attendance).

My saga is pound out, I untaped in a sensory receptor circle, with thoughtful roots: my bones, knuckles, shoulders, chromosomes, give way down; dreams not deserving such anymore: they travel during dreariness and go away by sunrise. I even have a facial gesture on my face, like the freeze light wind from the sea.

I see everywhere the new breed: beside computers preceding their knees, a cup of coffee by their side, not more than life span in their sentiment.

And I comprehend parent in the room (now and consequently)) even on the other hand she'd deathlike)), she's speaking once again just about the stockyards, where on earth she worked, way fund when. I instinct I'll sit and comprehend...just for a sec (she's laughen).

#1405 7/29/2006 [3:00 PM]; typed at El Parquetito, Miraflores, and Lima, Peru: Dedicated to Elsie T. Siluk

Note: Being a Meat packer's son, my mother liked to travel burrow from trade sit in circles the kitchen, share me of all the confabulation active on, down at the South St. Paul (Minnesota) stockyards (the slaughterhouse, it was known as). I worked their one summer, support in 1967, she'd locomote and effect me up at my living accommodations on Seventh Street, bring up me to work, she was vain I was exploitable in that. I would come with in unsettled and all that good of bad behavior, and she'd put on up for me near the bosses, have her young man who worked there sermon to them; so I kept my job for the season. But that was it.

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