Tuesday, November 25, 2008

The First High

A note said don't look so of course I did.

The first high is the best high.

We drove to Framingham Massachusetts hung over and discouraged.

Someone was always making excuses for me.

Honey grahams, sugar smacks.

The sun rose on a jack rabbit's corpse.

What was it about certain men that kept them on the periphery, their arms folded?

Fear of hunger.

As usual, Newsweek provided the necessary details.

There was a piano somewhere, up the road, I could hear the notes.

As the butt of many jokes, may I offer a bit of advice?

One does not want to flatter Christ by accident.

Repetition is inevitable.

He spread the Daily Hampshire Gazette on the kitchen table so I could see how the war had ended.

There were lines everywhere and more often than not you were left to find them on your own.

Bad things do happen on dirt roads.

A very specific degree not attained.

Olivia Newton John sang Greensleeves over and over.

Why not the best?

He looked behind him for reassurance in vain.

No comments:

Post a Comment