Saturday morning’s stack of papers were dropped at my door by four…awaiting delivery in the cold dawn….come rain or sleet or snow or…corporate America’s demise…or or or…you get the picture…

looking at that bundle through young blood-shot eyes in a hungover haze…early morn beer in hand and an attitude of defiance, Fuck you Journal Gazette…Fuck you indeed, mumbled…swig of beer and Zippo lit…let the Royal Rumpus begin…

and watching the blaze of 34 newspapers…ashes dancing…so was I…to the joys of procrastenation…the simplicity of just not caring…burn baby burn…

pop open another…stolen from dad’s stash…thinking of leaving…running away…never returning to the small town…the limited visions…only wanting to dream…and dream and dream…of West coast beaches and punk rock life…here’s to going nowhere….

then… the call downtown…the covering of tracks…, Bob…you’re not going to believe this…but my papers haven’t been dropped-off yet…you know I run a tight ship Bob…this will affect my tips…

I was assured another stack was on the way…a two hour delay of delivering important information and funny pages…all for what…

per chance to dream….