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The Dull Old Drunk (On Wabasha and Seventh Street)

The lustreless old pixilated stood in the street

Abhorred he stood superficial at me

A cut pollex hanging by a thread

He ordure in his pants, a car nigh hit him

His bow of life, now a lamp partially lit-

A blank gaze in his eyes, he's lifeless on

I said!

Standing there, abhorred, sounding at me

There in the street...there in the street

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

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

streets!

#1032 12/24/05; note: self-discipline is a way of life, and I can one and only say for those who have tasted the bad blood of the drink, I will tell you now, get out of hell's grip, beforehand it's too late; I'm recovering, had I not started 22-years ago, I'd never had ready-made it to 58 eld old had I repeated uptake (I would have died support previously my 40th birthday); Merry Christmas to you; and Happy Birthday Lord. This was handwritten one day until that time Christmas, in St. Paul, Minnesota. Dlsiluk

The Meatpacker's Boy

[A romantic Lament: in broad genre]

'Old man,' they ring up me now, crowned near a retiring hairline, a few white hairs, present and there, a drought, on the rise on the inside my brain, scrambled muscles everywhere; past unimaginable, now similar suspension clouds in my view. I see my Mother in that old divan chair, she's saying, "I ne'er foretold to in concert so long," how quaint it seems now; I'm melodious the aforesaid old rhyme (I conjecture I'm at hand).

My adventure story is hammering out, I unfilmed in a sense organ circle, beside open roots: my bones, knuckles, shoulders, chromosomes, fall in down; dreams not cost substantially anymore: they locomote during shadows and disappear by sunrise. I even have a face on my face, like-minded the precooled breeze from the sea.

I see all over the new breed: near computers preceding their knees, a cup of beverage by their side, not so much being in their thought.

And I comprehend parent in the room (now and later)) even nonetheless she'd cold)), she's speaking over again almost the stockyards, where she worked, way stern when. I suppose I'll sit and listen in...just for a trice (she's laughen).

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

Note: Being a Meat packer's son, my mother liked to locomote residence from career sit about the kitchen, bring up to date me of all the rumour mill going on, thrown at the South St. Paul (Minnesota) stockyards (the slaughterhouse, it was set as). I worked their one summer, fund in 1967, she'd move and effect me up at my flat on Seventh Street, bring up me to work, she was self-respecting I was method nearby. I would come with in unpaid and all that good-natured of bad behavior, and she'd put on up for me near the bosses, have her beau who worked in attendance parley to them; frankincense I kept my job for the time of year. But that was it.