Monday, February 8, 2010


I hold a Square Corner's yellowed hand. Like a parent I lead it through danger, across deadly trails. With gentle words I reassure it, coax it, calm its red beating heart. I embrace it gently, too. Write on it soothing words in childish prose. Then I rock it softly to sleep, a lullaby in my soul. I hold a Square Corner's hand, and type dastardly words. Devious men. Lonely women. Boxers bloody and blue. I visit a ghost, or a ghost visits me. I hold a Square Corner's hand. Ah, and Zigman, too. Ghost of Bukowski, Boyce and women with Lonely Eyes. Manny running in Brooklyn tunes. Square Corner grow to be me, or me to be you. Our hands held in prayer to a deathly post.

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