It's a helluva thing, you know, when the
pickpocket marks the carny. When the
witch doctor runs for governor and a
lanky street preacher
tickles the ivories.
Summer '94. Embarking from
Wy'East to Stone Mountain.
Boot camp to Uncle Heavy Dude.
Disciplined respect to joyous chaos.
Rolling into humid suburbs, dancing
beside a summer party pool.
As a deafening bass rattles the neighbor's day,
a Frisbee separates the lazy air.
Later that night, OK, alright,
I and I tripping the light? Fantastic!
Swing and sway
the night away in
Little Five Points joint.
Up, with this, we shall not put!
Dasn't we hasten the lesson that
ten pounds of shit
into a five pound bag
will not fit?
Eventually, once you begin to see it,
it's a slam-pipe-lead-dunk cinch -
Epiphanies-R-Us,
the game's afoot,
the nippers wander asunder and try not to
screw the pooch;
Now that the Old Man
has flown the goddamn coop!
Seattle Washington, 2010
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