Fontegaia rolls on.


That other one, with the beard, the slouch hat
of tramps, the pathetic pipe - that needy old man,
wearing out his welcome among blessed suburbanites -
where he gone? Southwest with the Soo Line, I bet.

Down to the turquoise desert, maybe - watching sunrise
light the razory edge of ye planet. Doing the ghost
dance bit with the birdcage whistle of a limberlost
vacationer in these parts (passin' through, guys).

A pattern in the sand, like a sidewinder mandala.
No cameras, please. An excuse for a man,
dug up somewhere (straight from the can,
I reckon). Better move on, fella.

Whistle on through, like a Hiawatha
with fins - like a Frisbee hovercraft
over a couple of stereo kids (daft
in love, falls like Minnehaha).

Everybody's shadow lights out somewhere, Huck.
The spin doctors the wound but won't heal
the mortal - since it was a formidable
yearn to begin with (out of a garden walk).

So's the story, anyhow. Hope to see her someday,
quoth King Solomon (speaking the dark cause
of him condition). She'm the reason I chose
to chase them varmints over the hill
, agreed Will A.

Who your buddy, Poe? Lasso-Man? (Can't we all
get a lung?) She'll be roping up your neck
as we speak, pard - Legal Aid, I mean - heck,
she's law, f'cryin' aloud. Sheba's Blackstone, pal.

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