We are the men in cheap suits In bad haircuts too Our skin pock-marked, bloodied up like a Bukowski yellow page Teeth crooked, cracked, decaying, dying We are the men in cheap suits Eyes small and narrow, sunken deep in a cold hurt But our lit pupils shine on a night Dark alley inhabitants: hookers and hard luck men, beggars and busted hearts, Poets, Social Workers of the Soul
Bloggers, we are the human condition We are TheSquare Corner as one, all lives tied to words, chained to a yellow verse or two
For breakfast I ate peas out of a can For lunch, cold beans At dinner I dined on sweet cabbage and salty brine Then in the darkest hour of the night, I splayed my supine body Lifted my legs And in a Vesuvius eruption blew a flaming, gaseous cloud of peas and beans and dinner fixins' straight through a molten roof
Where am i now? Lost. Forlorn. Small. A million light years away from Father Time. Distant the Mother Nature of moaning, groaning, biting storms with five am lovers like happiness absent in delirium seas. i am here. i am now. Lost i am to the dying star of time's father. To the dying nature of mother's lost and winded sails like sheets flapping in cosmic flatulent wind. Ah, the blog. My friend at last. Come with me to see what once was and will never be, oh feverish days.
Hey you, strange face. Yeah, you the boxer man. Cauliflowered ears. Nose misshapen and beaten, twisted and indented where the bridge meets the skin, leathery and scarred around sallow eyes. Hey you, strange face. Who are you--skin pock-marked? Cheeks and forehead sliced with razor blade blows from deathly gloves. Who are you, a referee's foil? The victor, most times long ago. Defeated in the end, as fighter's always are. Who are you, tell me now?
"I'm Manny Weinberg, God Damn it! And I got a shirt full of bullet holes. God Damn dwarfs. This is the appreciation I get. Train a few flyweights and they want to off ya's for no good reason. And don't believe nuttin' you read in no paper. Hold my Underwood. I gotta go to da' crapper, God Damn it. Wait till I get my hands on d'em dwarfs, I'll wipe my a$$ with d'ems"
Weinberg Dies of Gunshot Wounds Dwarf Sepratist Group Claims Responsibility
(AP)April 9, 2010. Manny Weinberg, 87, died of gunshot wounds he recieved on April 5th at the corner of Bank St. and Despair. The ex-middle weight left the Carney Gym which he managed at 11pm. Moments later he was struck by numerous bullets to his torso from a moving car. Witnesses say the car was filled with dwarfs firing rifles.
The Square Corner News Network (SCNN) has reported receiving a video tape from a dwarf separatist group claiming responsibilty for the shooting of Mr. Weinberg. A hooded dwarf read a prepared statement from the Front for The Liberation of Small People (FLSP). The spokeperson for the group called for a new homeland for dwarfs, in order to protect their distinct way of life and stature. No reason was given for the killing of Mr. Weinberg.
Meanwhile, at the Carney Gym, both current and former fighters met to commerate the life of Manny Weinberg. The room was somber with boxers wearing typewriter ribbons around their arms in memory of their former mentor and trainer. A large poster with the words "God Damn it!" hung from the ceiling in this decaying building in neglected part of the city.
Flyweight Miquel de Knuckles spoke tearfully of Mr. Weingberg, "He good man. Dwarf do this, we take revenge."
Police have not reported any leads or arrests in the killing. There are increased patrols in the dwarf neighbourhood, where tensions are running high.
The alter ego of the Square Corner, Tortelli, could not be reached for comment. No word yet on the funeral for Mr. Weinberg.
(AP)April 5, 2010. Yesterday night ex-middleweight Manny Weinberg was shot multiple times in a drive by shooting. At 11pm Mr. Weinberg, 85, left the Carney Gym, which he manages. As he made his way to the corners of Bank St. and Despair, a car pulled up and its occupants fired repeatedly at the former 1947 Golden Gloves finalist. Mr Weinberg was struck seven times in the torso, with the other bullets striking a manual Underwood typewriter which he held to his chest.
Zigman Zibanski, 47, an acquaintance of Mr. Weinberg came to his aid. "Blood everywhere. He scream 'they hit me, God Damn it.' Lucky he carry typewriter or he be dead like old country chicken."
The creator of the blog The Square Corner, Tortelli, said this about Mr. Weinberg. "He is a recent character. We are all shocked to hear of this shooting and pray for his full recover."
Doctors at Holy Cross hospital list his condition as critical.
Police are describing the assailants as three white dwarfs with salt and pepper hair. The car is said to be a late model Little Red Chevette with licence plate BH-A$$.
Some days I got a brain that stops. It freezes in time like an old watch. Other days I got a brain that thinks unlimited thoughts. It goes on and on like a universe warped into an eternity. But most times my brain is like a small wave on large sea, a white crest crashing against salty water.
I was trapped in a room with a mad bull mastiff. His teeth gnarled. His short hairs stood on end. In a second he could pounce. How do I escape? I fall flat as a paper and slide under a door. A blogger's post and a magic carpet ride to a safe Square Corner.
"I got no real place to stay. I'm staying at the Salvation Army."
"What about the new apartment?"
"I didn't get it?"
"What about the old place? Can they take you back?"
"Nah, they kicked me out. Geez, you're asking me too many questions."
"Sorry, Georgie. But if you need anything, just ask."
Georgie had no teeth. Not for years. Didn't take care of 'em. He had a bigger problem then that. Schizophrenia since he was age nineteen. Got it when he was studying at a Calvinist College in Michigan. Not there is any real connection with these things. Lived as a good tenant for years, then the voices got the better of him. He also had a troubled girlfriend who made things worse all round. So in the end they booted him out on his a$$. Probably was hard to live with, from their stand point. So what does he do now? Sixty three years old. Nearly a pensioner. Nearly on the street. What a tragic story. What a true story.
I got a memory inside my heart. It beats, beats, beats. It recollects. It reflects like shimmering light on the smoothed hands of time. Tick, Tick, Tick. This memory stays with me, as I recall, like a good watch.