The Fargo Kantrowitz'z Literary Campsite

A fellow walked into the bar.

Of course nothing would happen.

 Why would it? He paid the bartender who threw him a wink,

 a real looker, he thought, how droll.

So sweet American you look sorrowful to me,

with your pitiful ways and poverty stricken days,

 your best country in the world is all tired and worn

 because you’ve been shorn of your reason and vote

 for lullaby glumpers, con-men, who want to do you harm,

want to take all your money and you give it to him

 because he can get you to itchin’.

 Just scratching llke a greyhound.

So you do nothing.

You move up to the bar and you look around.

 You hear some music. A Sunday song, a soft one from the seventies

with women with white lace around their arms

and sunshine that fell honestly and sweetness,

 if there, found its way to you and yours in so many ways.

 Used to have the writers to document this utopia too,

people who lived it, who lived a life of ease and beauty,

 those lucky enough. But not you, you sit at the bar and ask for a whiskey

because you want to get a little drunk after Lucille and all.

How? How? How? How? Mara’s going to know about it

 and then she’s going to be gone too but you can’t keep it in.

you blew it with Lucille and now Mara’s gotta know

or you yourself won’t want to be in the relationship anymore.

A real bummer.

But that’s what you do, you, who write because you’re supposed to make money

and you write about the way that words sound through horns of echoing loveliness,

you remember that and you write about it, and it is something good that you remember,

 like those other writers of old and the only reason you remembered it

was because you wanted to, all good feelings are like that,

 they just need to be invited back in. Betternnostalgia.