I applied for a booth at The Delray Affair,
a local street fair designed to keep the tourists around
for one more weekend, when I still worked for IBM.
The town burghers denied me a booth. I guess they didn’t like me
saying I was the only sane man in
the vernacular about race. When asked about it by a newspaper reporter
they said I had missed the deadline for applying, which was a lie. I went ahead
and held a counterfair in my front yard. The Dreyfus Affair – Banned Books,
I called it. I made a billboard out of a 4 x 8’ sheet of plywood listing
my grievances.
Another, smaller sign said
They had a sign at the state line.
it licensed writers but refused to license me.
No tits and no veteran’s preference.
Brenda came outside and saw me sitting by
the sidewalk, making a spectacle of myself.
“Well, Jack,” she said, “I guess you came out of
the closet, all right.” I thought the local TV
and radio stations would consider banned books news.
They didn’t cover me. I was business as usual.
That’s how they make it work. You are a freak.
Beneath their consideration. A shameless publicity hound.
A geek, biting the heads off chickens on the carnival midway.
Little Jack Horton, circus midget. I refer you to Hotwalker.
Charles Bukowski &
a Ballad for Gone
Cacoëthes Scribendi remembers.