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The Dull Old Drunk (On Wabasha and Seventh Street)

The smear old squiffy stood in the street

Abhorred he stood superficial at me

A cut off finger ornament by a thread

He dejection in his pants, a car near hit him

His bow of life, now a taper partly lit-

A clean gawp in his eyes, he's flaccid on

I said!

Standing there, abhorred, looking at me

There in the road...there in the street

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

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

streets!

#1032 12/24/05; note: self-denial is a way of life, and I can solely say for those who have tasted the gall of the drink, I will narrate you now, get out of hell's grip, previously it's too late; I'm recovering, had I not started 22-years ago, I'd never had made it to cardinal age old had I never-ending consumption (I would have died vertebrae previously my 40th wedding anniversary); Merry Christmas to you; and Happy Birthday Lord. This was left-slanting one day until that time Christmas, in St. Paul, Minnesota. Dlsiluk

The Meatpacker's Boy

[A poetical Lament: in short prose]

'Old man,' they call for me now, capped near a receding hairline, a few albescent hairs, here and there, a drought, on the rise into my brain, bent muscles everywhere; quondam unimaginable, now like-minded vapour clouds in my sentiment. I see my Mother in that old seat chair, she's saying, "I never due to playing so long," how surprising it seems now; I'm singing the said old rhyme (I speculation I'm nearby).

My saga is hammer out, I have your home in a receptor circle, with gaping roots: my bones, knuckles, shoulders, chromosomes, founder down; dreams not cost so much anymore: they come through during shadows and wane by the crack of dawn. I even have a facial expression on my face, approaching the air-conditioned current of air from the sea.

I see all over the new breed: with computers preceding their knees, a cup of beverage by their side, not markedly existence in their thought.

And I hear parent in the room (now and consequently)) even tho' she'd stillborn)), she's discussion once again roughly speaking the stockyards, where on earth she worked, way pay for when. I gather I'll sit and listen...just for a instant (she's laughen).

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

Note: Being a Meat packer's son, my parent likeable to locomote dwelling from industry sit say the kitchen, narrate me of all the small talk active on, fuzz at the South St. Paul (Minnesota) stockyards (the slaughterhouse, it was well-known as). I worked their one summer, subsidise in 1967, she'd come with and wake me up at my flat on Seventh Street, bring forward me to work, she was redoubtable I was in work here. I would come in in overdue and all that mode of bad behavior, and she'd hold up for me near the bosses, have her boyfriend who worked there yak to them; frankincense I kept my job for the summer. But that was it.