Thursday, February 03, 2005


While in my angry 20's (ie; pre-yoga) Bukowski stage, I wrote this pome about the father's second wife....whose birthday was Monday*:



Red lips
Red shoes
Red car
and Red nails

That bitch read my mail and threw it out.


*Which reminds me; my dad would have been 75 today...something I forgot until I was in the midst of devouring a cholesterol-laden Swedish repast at Svea II this afternoon. I slathered my limpa** toast with an extra pat of butter in his memory.

**traditional Swedish rye bread made with fennel seeds.

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