When the clock you
had shot couldn’t be repaired, you placed it on a hill as bear bait. The floor
of the forest was littered by then with the red-and-black checkered caps of
hundreds of hunters. There was, your last postcard said, a complete absence of
twilight. You should have lived to fifty or even fifty-five, a pint tucked away
in your back pocket. Other fathers did.
Howie Good
http://apocalypsemambo.blogspot.com
The Postman Dada Guide
Andrei Codrescu