08 July 2009

Bury the Rag

You can't glorify the gurney when its washed up like salt. If Taffy is melting tell her to just string it along. There's envelopes unopened; it could be a letter or a dream. Find me when you're lost and you'll know then what I mean. Now the dishes run on empty beneath a helicopter fan. The ceiling is pleading for the farmer's black & tan. His gold rings betray him for the city boy he once was as his heart pounds regardless for his country and his love. Walking backwards up the escalator past the old coffee café. Time flies by so slowly when you're searching for that needle in the hay. She had a crunchy brown bag full of lemons. A dark navy blue pea coat and a mermaid's smile. Underneath an umbrella in the rain. Holding hands down Minetta Lane. Past the rowhouses on West Houston. We kissed on Carmine looking north to Lady Pompeii and she smiled knowingly. Gelato poetry at Café Procope. Gelato in Italian literally means "frozen". She had a dog named Nocciola but everyone that knew her called the dog Bacio, the Italian word for "kiss" because this 100 pound Isabella Doberman would not leave you alone until he actually licked inside your nostrils. I must have listened to that record a thousand times. If you listened real close you could hear him nervously adjusting his gold chain during the quiet parts. His obsessive-compulsive disorder made it so that he couldn't sit still unless the clasp on his necklace was perfectly centered on the back of his neck.

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