I’m sorry Hugh , I can’t worry about that right now……
because I have the odd feeling that either chic is making beautiful music with his meat whistle inside the long darkened hallway of some overweight divorced chain smoking Democrat with syphillis …..
or that he’s crying in a soft low whimper inside his closet , last year’s winter jacket and his old tennis shoes his only friends , and the only ones there to keep him company ……
Both possibilities leave me uneasy and feeling a little nauseous , like I just ate runny eggs at a beat up diner just off the outskirts of town that still has payphones by the front entrance , and the short order cook is using one of them while smoking a Camel cigarette and trying to score some drugs …..
but how can I know for sure ?
what if chic’s tiny shanty burst aflame and toppled upon him ? ……
…..cheap plywood and duct tape consuming him like the player in a football game who jumps on the fumble first , while half the other combatants hop on him in a pile like one of those small town festivals in Spain where they make a human tower , except instead of raising him up to the gods , low cost building material is suffocating his little body to death , and charring it like creme brulee ?
For all I know he could be sleeping , thumb in his mouth , one sock on , one sock off , and the May 1986 issue of Penthouse opened up to the centerfold just lazily hanging out there all stuck together by his Garfield plushy……
you know , this is leaving a bad taste in my mouth , like that time I pissed in a Nestea bottle , forgot about it , then my buddy came over to my house unannounced and drank it while I was taking a shit ….
Chic ? Chic ? You out there ? Come on , let us know you’re ok by writing one sentence about any random thing I said ….
fuck his shed-like size house with no heat , I just hope he’s ok and that his John Cheever-esque love letters made it through the inferno ….
Chic !
BACK PATTING and KISSING threads are like passing HAM SANDWICHES around over and over-wall