There was no warning
no alarm sounded
when they came for Jack.
A coat of restraint,
Jack went along easy
he had rode this horse
before.
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About Me
- Dale Hunt
- He's become comfortable in that ol' civil war jacket. What would compliment that mess of hair? A sage cigarette, a bottle in his hand and a book in his pocket. A hobo at heart a drunk by night and a rambling pain. Tired and old before his time. Studying the greats Bukowski, Tom Waits William S. Burroughs and Hunter S. Thompson, Kerouac and John Steinbeck. Drinking Brandy and Cockspur rum from the bottle. Hiding down South for the winter months running from the cold and consequence.
1 comment:
did the stain of strain spill over Jack's mind? the horror of some imaginary bust not at all related to what he done or said or wanted to do but for who he associated with? who's game is this Jack? the self recrimination. the regret. the crucifiction of sexual desire. Jack, you can fake your incarceration all you want. no one's going to lock you away for embodying the prince of Buckowski's dirty old man. hard ons come in packs of thirteen. and Jack, you, you'd go down swinging. you'd tell tales and blow that trumpet. you wouldn't even stop to smell the pillow. the litany of outrage would be instant. and that would be what the Bishop hears. Nah. the trip is what you're running to, Jack. hallucinations are for picking. not purging.
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