Thursday, August 28, 2014

W.C. Fields

W.C. Fields

W.C. Fields

You must've survived
a whore-'n-buggy crash,
you lacquered, lost fingernail!
The house at 2015 DeMille Drive
is up for grabs... seven-million dollars.
Fields is sitting hundreds of half-boxed
books: cracked-spine Stephen Crane...
stacks of duplicate Conrads and Dickens.

Took me dozens of moons to croak
once the nurses took the bottled goods.
Acting?  Send your two-year-old boy
over to drown in my lilies and fish pond.
You'll sure have emotional recall.
Ask Tony Quinn about that truth.

Dead, I sit gaseous in underwear,
wait for tourists, loose day-trippers
with five-buck Maps-to-the Stars.
I mourn for myself, my marriage,
my taken-away sons, grandkids,
all their doggies, and I miss laughter.
Thanks for askin', lumpy ass cheek.




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