The lamp by your window
tells me:
I must be up to watch the dawn
schemes are formed,
men go wrong
The great engines
of the mind lie rusting
against the night:
slanted slightly, empires
disarrayed into song
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A man is a success if he gets up in the morning and gets to bed at night, and in between he does what he wants to do. --- Bob Dylan
Boris Moron
Boris wandered lost in the crowd, stifling yet another belch.
Knuckles sliding along the ground, a ham-fisted grab-bag of
Coca Cola, chips, and a stale cigar clenched in the other hand.
At this extraordinary moment, Corncob was mounting the stage,
the first and final object he’d even come close to mounting in the
last decade.
These were among the real Bloor St. underground denizens:
cave-dwellers, morons, and the intellectually quadriplegic.
Each of these unmentionables has participated in a simultaneous
and mutual evacuation that had completely polluted several layers
of whatever atmosphere existed only moments ago.
I sit back here, scribbling these words; praying that nobody will
notice me or call attention to the fact that I am being what they please
themselves to call cynical. Though I believe it is simply relief that
someone else has taken on the task of description they would not be
able to contain once begun.
I guess it doesn’t help that our peerless leaders are themselves in
dire need of such therapy as this cast of village idiots provides.
Both – and all – were kings and queens, of long sustained bursts of silent thought.
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