Thursday, April 2, 2009
The three legged chair. The wobbled table. The collapsed stool of a rolly-polly man writhing madly on a barroom floor of piss and spittle. Peals of laughter from drunks and debutantes of the drink. Man's inhumanity to man. Woman's inhumanity to man. Roots of plenitude and dying amplitude in the voiceless sorrow of a shadow fighter, an old boxer tamed by fear and a sanity that slipped long ago into out-of-mind craziness.