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Brass In The Cement Age Nobody who looks like a homeless drifter would walk into an expresso bar and order a $5.00 Capucchino-Latte if he's not a crew director taking a break from his Type-A personality activities, convincing himself that he's a part the local colour scene. True, he has not a cent on him and the only thing in his pocket is a platinum express card . . . but you can tell he's not just a common hoser anyway, because ass-a-holic attitude is one of the first dead give-aways; glaring at people staight in the eye, the sneer of authority, the loud sighs, barking commands at everyone in sight as if they're all just turds cluttering up his set. Is this really "The Liberal Media" at work, or are the dolts in Congress just jealous of so much power, so much self-importance, so much creativity, so much Culture? Of course, he gets laid a lot, too-- that'd tip the balance some, right? |
Additional Notes:
This poem has appeared in The Bay Review in a slightly different version.
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