Me. And me now.
- James Joyce, Ulysses
I hadn't heard that expression since Cork Hill.
Half a century ago.
My grandfather and his cronies, sucking suds at the corner saloon.
Polish fellas. Words unminced.
You betta get the hell outta here!
C-130s. Touch and go,
bringing fame and (mis)fortune.
But now, from a couple of fogeys in The Bellevue.
Might as well have been the psych ward.
Might as well have been spring.
Black clouds rolling in over last night's ninth-inning call.
These are the Majors,
mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!
Conundrums amid homemade specials.
Farm fresh. Indeed!
A summer stew. Bland. Soy sauce? Sorry.
Hickory, dickory, dock,
The mouse ran up the clock.
The clock struck . . . out!
Friends in another booth telling my daughter and me
about the berm in their backyard.
To quiet the road noise.
Berm. Another term I hadn't heard in a while.
Thirteen years, if you must. (And, of course, you must!)
A house in a new development.
With berm to quiet . . . the madding crowd.
Down payment and all.
Here we go! à la Heath Ledger.
(Where DID he go? Better: Where did WE go?)
Significant other #2 morphing into insignificant ex #2.
I suppose it does take two to tango.
Or, maybe three?
The rice bowl with crack.
The Wabi-sabi(ness) of it all, yes?
There must be some kind of way out of here,
said the joker to the thief, . . . .
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| Steamboat Willie (1928) |