Gary Introne

    Another stupid airport : walk in here, stand
    there, line up. Rental car counter, coffee stand.
    Artisan bread, bakeries like soda-water. Easter
    pastries, and Summer ices. What gives?
    I sit on a rounded plastic bench, like something
    from 1974 - I fully expect the twenty-five cent
    per hour slot for TV viewing coins. You remember?
    Those dumb little black and whites built into the
    plastic bench-seat arms? Well, anyway, that was
    America then. Vietnam had no travel brochures yet.
    One time, I fell asleep, crossing the country from one
    little airport to bus station to airport again. In a chair
    just like these - I was on the run, fighting the law,
    no, Hell, I was fighting the killing of a very bastardized
    country. Something of Lucy and Desi bombings, the
    filth and disgust of TV land hostelries, Archie Bunker
    bullshit while we carpet bombed and Agent Orange'd
    Cambodia, Vietnam and Laos too. I bet Nixon jerked
    off in his sleep over those.
    Now, it's a million years later and I'm a book-show
    millionaire. Money like fire-water runs through the
    Indian reservation in my mind. Wounded Knee got
    nothing on me, and I walked the pickets with Russel
    Means and fifteen hundred others. War and salacious
    he-devil evils have always followed me : now the
    stupid shits just pay me off to tell my tales and
    stories of 'that was then and this is now' glories.


Gary Introne -
Tags: Thanal Online, web magazine dedicated for poetry and literature Gary Introne, AT JFK RED CLOUD
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