I drive along the trail with a 20 oz cup of coffee with milk in it,
writing
poems in a Big Chief tablet, or my portable computer,
with my initials on it.
J. S. Jack Saunders. Associate Information
Developer, Retired. Resigned.
Told the bossman to go piss up a rope.
I have a rental car, so I don't worry about it starting. I have
air-conditioning,
or a heater. At least the power windows go
up and down. There's nothing to
see anyway. The other Florida.
The real Florida. State parks and billboards.
Keep Florida Beautiful.
I listen to The Saunders Brothers or Grant Peeples, or
Em McElderry.
Slim Fatz. Brenda's right. I have social security. I have unemployment.
I
have the savings from an economic-stimulus-package trickle-down grant
to write
training programs for the unemployed. I have a wife who works
and kids who live
poor so I can tell the bossman to go piss up a rope.
They weren't a nest of lesbians,
they were just ambitious women who felt
entitled. Maybe they were. Maybe they
are. Good luck, ladies. When you stare
into the abyss, don't become the void
you're staring at. Men who stare at goats.
Visualize success, and money will
be attracted to you. You betchum Little Beaver.
They've got half the money and
all the pussy.
It ain't a fair fight. They want more.
They feel outnumbered.
They
have self-esteem issues.