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Carter Monroe |
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Preparation Fall's my time of year in this bourgeoisie catastrophe. It's what vampires love when darkness rules the roost. I don't feel so abnormal when I wander in the night. Of course, even in this crossroads village I need my pistol by my side. Money for nothing is too popular these days for the aged and the short of breath to ignore. I remember when I started locking my car doors and looking out and about before exiting my home each morning. Scanning the nooks and trees and drawing imaginary beads. It's all about the junky next door. Out of prison after his second stretch and clean for the moment. Broke into a neighbor's house some years back and cleaned her freezer out. They sent him away the last time for desecrating a church. High and hopped, he poured sugar and flour all over the sanctuary and pissed on it. The bloodhounds followed the urine trail through backyards and ditches winding up at his home where stolen guns and needles lay visible in front of his infant children. They read him his rights and he asked, "Do you think I'll go to hell?" Maybe there's time for repentance. Who knows? There won't be if he comes my way. I can hear the cops now asking, "Why didn't you just pop him in the leg?" Up Periscope I'm taciturn these days as my upbeat view of potential becomes moribund in the wake of scattered responsibilities and undisciplined realities No more amalgams of inspiration that seemingly explode from nowhere. No more streams of ambition to dilute the drudgery of this day-to-day crud of routine. Perhaps the contentment was never there at all and the film that flashed was a child's fantasy replete with happy endings. Things never stay the same in a world of isolated visions. The bills always come, sometimes in droves, searching for cash, cards, or kited checks. "It's all in how one looks at things," they told me in the old days. I stayed the course longer than most never knowing that I had the capacity to be like everyone else. Provincial Nocturne In this dream, I strut through the bar door. Johnny Tillotson on the juke and white bucks all around. Might be reefer on Times Square, but this is the backwoods. Old Chevys and muffler-less Fords line the ditched parking lot. The under aged guys park in the back. The beer's in bottles. No cans. No draft. Turned up collars, white socks, and rolled up sleeves. The farm boys stand outside. The brown in the bottles, the clear in the jars. No fights yet, but the hair is rising here and there. What's a Saturday without emotion. The football game doesn't count now. I can't see myself even though they speak to me. How can anonymity be the center of attention. A few girls scattered about with kerchiefs and lace. Slow dancers in the corner with roaming hands and lies. The virgin boys get louder and louder as they stand away from it all, their hormones playing up to the view. Will there be a race, a rape, a scuffle to whet the appetites that beg for action? Is that Carl Perkins I hear in the background? Here comes Susie. Maybe I'll be the one to get lucky tonight. I must remember as I sleep that I haven't learned about probability yet. |