In wanders Sparky, happy as a pup, though you could never tell this pup
had a piece of brain lodged in his head.
Boris Karloff boots, polyester pants that themselves will constitute an
environmental hazard well into the next century, yet carefully designed to ride
a fashionable three inches above the white gym socks.
Bearing his gourmand’s picnic of potato chips, a litre or two of carbonated gas,
a few Twinkies, and a stale cigar, Sparky laughs at nothing. Fists the air
when nobody’s there, chuckling to himself… a regular party of those who can rightfully establish
the claim to rise at the crack of noon.
The uninhibited belches, amid some stage acts of softly enunciated sophomoric
silliness of versified romance and ethereality, are the best though.
The dykes-on-bikes are extremely unhappy and lash out, making Boris
laugh like Jethro Bodine, famous brain surgeon.
But we know it’s all because of his old ivory, the snaggle-toothed piano-playing mothersqueezer..
“What’s your name?”
“What do you do?”
“I stare at the moon.”
There’s just no stopping the new, and oldest, democracy.
- excerpt from FAT ALBERT’S OUTPATIENT FOLK CLINIC…..A coffeehouse, café as society…”Acid wit, deep insight, humor, powerful metaphor, intelligence…. A smooth ride on a bumpy road, with side trips into unseen hollows of the human experience…. What else do you need to know? An excellent read, worth sharing far and wide… More, please….” Prose poems that are a paean to Musicians, Writers, Artists, & Wingnuts: to folksingers, the troubled and disturbed, open mic nights everywhere.
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