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Jumper cables…

January 17, 2011

And I can see the wolves,

frisking in the yard,

ever running through the forest;

and I feel again the wonder as the flame-red-salmon sway across the gravel bars…

I can see the swans,

pounding their feet upon the drum skin of the ice,

beating time to their age-old melody as they wing their way into the orange dusk;

I can hear their mournful calling as they bring the winter with them from the north…

I can smell the scent of summers blooming in the meadows,

and once more,

I climb the mountains and stand above the eagles while my spirit soars to the heavens,

and the world swings away from my feet…

— in Cabin at Singing River by Chris Czajkowski

It’s a bit shocking to have dreams,

where you find yourself in bed with a man,

on the more senior end of the age continuum,

his wife,

and one thing leading to another…

But in this new line of business,

I just go where I’m called,

and do what I’m told,

all in the name of service,

with a smile…

So when I see my patient laying on his back,

gasping for air,

like a dead ole ‘sturgeon,

and his frustrated wife eyein’ up the pool boy,

I glove up,

in elbow length velvet,

explaining each step of the procedure,

as I shampoo the block,

repair corroded contacts,

top up the radiator,

and advise on running practices,

which create a smoother ride…

You can’t fuel an engine with crude,

and expect to go anywhere interesting,

in the bedroom,

or out on the open road,

with hockey know-how…

Once everything is better than new,

I rattle and toss,

bedside prescriptions,

into the ensuite waste basket,

stating the guarantee that,

These will no longer be necessary…

Women watching,

ask me,

Where did you learn to do this???

I don’t rightly know how to answer,

other than to say,

Well they ain’t taught me this in school…

But I reckon’ it’s a combination of them 3 R’s,

and somethin’ I just know on the inside…

I double dare that moo cow Erica Johnson to call me up,

with her poor excuse for journalism,

for one of her Marketplace critical inquiries…

Because when she does,

I’ll be rubbing her eyes,

with an overdose,

of that six-pack of snake oil,

I keep all bottled up,

underneath my belt buckle…

And furthermore,

caulking those holes in her grey matter,

with bullets shot straight out of the pistols,

riding in my lady holster,

until she’s begging for mercy…

And who I am now is who I wanted to be...

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