Thursday, August 07, 2014


Your Independence Is Killing Me!

Yesterday, I stopped at my checking account,
but apparently I got lost after that.  Did I
a) clean the apartment considerably?  It
could be that I considered cleaning the
apartment.  That is, on a scale of 1 to 10,
extremely messy at the moment.  This,
and given that 10 equals b) should be 
your biggest clue.

I like that I live here.  Also the immediate
retort (or often more like a snort) of
“Snob Hill” ('more like', simply, an upturned
nose, as if directly after becoming ill, or ill-
informed, someone just gets it).  Beams
all strange, but, you know, beams,
walking with the students on Pine Street,
which is most of the faces I ever see.
Those and dogs called pugs, who are
probably mostly students at the Academy
of Art.

Would I really know?  I only speak with
Tony at the cash register down the block,
and with cabbies to and from.  Not the
block.  But, basically.

One could draw out a pretty long argument
about most of the students of the Academy
of Art, of course; it’s never too early to
cast your case.  I’ve taken to verbalizing
this and other probabilities when my
lower back is so tightly wound with pain
that I can’t even walk away from formality.

I’ve been rudely informed that it’s time.
For me to sit down a bit.  Or if I said
“for a spell” – you know, rather than
“a bit” – this chronic lover that speaks
of nothing but pain.  “Bring him his chair
full of cake and rubber you
colossally glum sacrum; you
bitch-hound of an art-
hritic coccyx!” 

“In absentia.”
“In absentia.”