by Wayan, 2007/10/11

"the telephone is the work destroyer" -- Ernest Hemingway

I skirt their lures the way I dodge dogshit on my brick front step. Still they lap time from out my neck with scarce a vampire suck. Softly snows the spam like lint below my bed to pile like dirty city spam-drifts in my head. The web's one famished nation: predation. Half my mail's attention-glue. Masked beggars whine and clutch slitting your pocket to burgle your you.

The rest? A slobbery puppypile of well-meant friends. No won- der Papa Hemingway ate that gun. But persons from Porlock aren't my theme. Roaches in my mailbox skitter, breeding even as I clean. Festering letters! Ça suffis today to make me bitter. Why couldn't Adam Smith (that fool Pandora) keep our glittering greed in the box asleep?