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Guilty! Life, I’m your beautiful man! February 19, 2012

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, Toulouse Street.
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I am not Uptown.

I am not Downtown.

I am the sad clown charming
improbable cabaret balloons
in fantastic Fellini dreams*

And then . . . and then . . . something comes back to me.
A door opens & I walk into the brisk, invigorating night.

THE SENSE OF DECORUM IN POVERTY

I put on a shirt
with a couple of
gone buttons and a
pair of pants my wife
hates and walk into
the living room and
sit down in a dull
chair. In this way I
acknowledge nothing’s
going on. If I
wanted to really
suffer I could go
lie down in some shit,
but that transgresses
the fine line between
propriety and
masochism. If
I were any kind
of poet I’d go
stick up a Jiffy
Mart or, Say, the First
Bank of the Cosmic
Imagination.
Then I could buy a
red plaid jacket with
a rooster tie and
stumble out into
the clear autumn air
crowing “Guilty! Life,
I’m your beautiful
man.”

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