Cock-a-doodle-doo, Key West
Opening my email account just now, I found this reply to yesterday’s Memorial Day, Key West post. When I went to the web link, I found the poem, which seems somewhat in keeping with what was rummaging through the back roads of the memories of the recesses of my mind earlier this morning, as I wrote my contribution to today’s post.
Dear Sloan,
I really enjoy your page.
I have included a link to it in my new blog
(also to the sister page, but it seems that one is just a backup)
http://theindianbanana.blogspot.com
cheers
Juani
Love is
irresistible
exciting and forbidden
I am sorry
a butterfly doesn’t need always to flee
but she doesn’t know
Love is spontaneous
and stupid
doesn’t think
forget me love
sorry I wasted your time
forgive me
foolish old man
dreaming impossible dreams …
Last night at Sippin’ Internet Café, some of the usual suspects showed up to chew the fat. One arrived in a Sloan for mayor campaign T-shirt she had redesigned to resemble something like Jane might show up in to get Tarzan’s attention. At my urging, she said she would get a photo taken and send it to me, and as soon as I get it I’ll share it with you.
She says she reads this blog daily, and she keeps telling me I’m a troublemaker. I keep telling her I know that, have been a troublemaker all my life. I told her my mother often used to say about me, “Only a mother could love it!” It. I was an it. No wonder I turned out like I did. Maybe her just as often saying, “With legs like that, you should have been a girl!” also had something to do with how I turned out. It’s always good to blame someone else for how I turned out, but I doubt that dog hunts too good.
The truth is, I was born a trouble maker. It’s in my genes, I told Jane last night, after demonstrating several different ways just how big a trouble maker I am, all the while perhaps not all too secretly wondering how I was going to figure out how to get her out of that designer T-shirt, which didn’t leave all that much to the imagination. I told her maybe I would write about it, the T-shirt, and maybe women would hire her to make their own Sloan for mayor T-shirts into something someone like me would just naturally want to snatch right off of them. Just naturally.
Now I realize this isn’t exactly something a person running for elected office is supposed to put into words on a public blog, or even into words anyone might even hear. Candidates for office don’t do stupid stuff like that. Candidates for office tell people what they hope they want to hear, the old smozzle job. A close relative of the check’s in the mail and I promise I won’t come in your mouth jobs.
Now why would I promise something like that, when I just might do it, if someone keeps on doing something?
My God, when I gave a campaign T-shirt last night to a woman in a local pub, she immediately started licking the crotch of the lying son-of-a-bitch claiming to be me on the front of the T-shirt. Then she came out from behind the bar and started licking my T-shirt in the same place, as I hollered, “Lower, lower!” Probably a good thing she didn’t go lower, I didn’t have my digitalis handy.
Yeah, yeah, you don’t need to say it. This is gross. It’s repulsive. What can I say? I’ve been a monk since early January 2005. I’m going crazy. I wake up in the wee hours, or at dawn, rarin’ to go, and all I can do is keep rarin’. Well, at least I know I’m not catching any bad disease. Nor could I give one away, unless you consider what I told the damsel in the Jane version of my campaign T-shirt last night, which I think maybe some of the other usual suspects also might have heard. Like, I sometimes tell people I’m a virus, and if they get too close to me they might catch it.
It is what has a hold of me and doesn’t seem to care much about anything I want, but has its own mind made up about where it’s taking me and what it’s going to do to me along the way. It gave me a harem in my dreams, but I tell you truly, dying and going to heaven and getting a harem just doesn’t get me over wishing I was dying and going to heaven — thank you, Jesus! — before I die and go to heaven in the way Christians and Moslems talk about it.
If this post makes you restless, I maybe should say I’m sorry, but I’m not going to do that, because I’m not sorry. What I’m sorry about right now is being a monk. Well, there are a few other things I’m sorry about, but that’s not what I went to bed last night with the itch to write about today, which was still itching when I woke up before dawn.
Speaking of which, it now is dawn and why it is, I can’t say, but I have yet to hear a Key West wild rooster greet the day.
Cock-a-doodle-doo, Jane, and how do you do!
Sloan for mayor, political advertisement, yeah right, and the horse I rode in on, approved and paid for by moi
P.S. Would you believe? Right after I finished writing this cock-and-bull, a wild rooster started greeting the day in the parking lot of City Hall. Yeah, maybe you would believe it. Maybe you would.