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Ryan Rowe |
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HELLHOUNDS ON MY TRAIL I killed a black widow the other day that was just between my sandaled feet. We get 3 requests for collect calls a day from a "Melvin" at a state correctional facility. He sounds like the Slingblade character and is beginning to get angry we don't accept. Last week I held a long-time family cat in my arms while the vet began inducing it's death. "Death does not end it..." says Morrison. Yes, the rock singer. "I don't like it anymore than you do..." says the old warden of Cool Hand Luke. I could eat 50 eggs. Todd Moore divining Dillinger. Winans blowing sad notes in San Fran. Huffstickler exiting to the sphere. I sit here thinking of these knowing that I'll tell anyone who asks why I'm a poet: "There's hellhounds on my trail." INFLAMMATION Not yet 30 and already with hemorrhoid, I walk into the grocery store and scan the cashiers for a suitable alternative. A man in his 60's on the far side will do just fine. I head for the isle, retrieve the ointment, get over to his line which has instantaneously grown 4 full shopping carts deep. A young high school girl, cheerleader blonde, immediately jumps into action. She opens the far register for me and my 1 item and calls me over. OK I said and walked on over. The two of us spent the length of the transaction trying not to look at each other. It's OK little sparrow, one day you'll know what me and the other cashier know- that life can take a piece of your ass now and then and that you'll make it and that somehow everything occurs without precedence and everything that blows by you is everything you need. |