MSTRE pt. 1

from by Patrick's Pt.

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Walk the block to the coffee shop, travel mug in hand. For seven and a quarter, kid takes my order -- a formality, you understand. He's got it here before an auctioneer could say, "The usual, my friend." Nine hours go by like asking why; I return home and then scratch an itch 'til misnomer Rich knocks on my door again. Says, "Hey mon frer, a buck and a square? Things ain't easy, y'know." And I say, "Ah, gee, what's in it for me?" and he doesn't seem to know.

An hour on and I'm long gone in the place to which I turn, and the swill I'm drinking's got me thinkin' unwell whiskey's a better term. For all I know I should be glad for Joe, young fella to my right celebrating a successful mating, a raise and a Corona Light. And hell, maybe too I should sigh with Lou, old fella to my left, about the way one's time don't seem to mind a quick and passive death.

But speaking of time, no time for that -- there's a hand around my neck, and far from silence a voice of violence says, "Sing our boy the song! He's been walking around like a faggot clown for a little bit too long." "It's not hysteria that's gonna carry ya to where you wanna be!" I say, and I kiss his face and I leave that place as fast as a man can flee.

I walk a ways, how far couldn't say, 'til the road I'm on dead-ends, and outta nowhere, I swear, a man appears like the way the mind pretends. Looks like me at 53: six-foot, blue eyes, blond hair. Seems like me at 23: somewhere, somewhere, somewhere. Patron saint of identity theft, a suitcase in his right hand, a book in his left, he starts to move in my direction, giving me a full inspection. Maybe he thinks there's some connection: time, chance, fate's projection? Then, having given due reflection and receiving no objection, he offers me an interjection in a voice with no inflection.

He says:


from MSTRE, released November 1, 2012



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Patrick's Pt. Columbus, Ohio

I had something on my mind, but I don't recall it.

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