Sometimes you happen to be standing at the bar and an older gent will nudge the sleeves and tell you in full Irish inflection that the gargirl's good looking -- and you put your best Loobie impersonator on and you tell 'em: that's some good looking wool.
Old man goes on to tell me he's gonna bite it soon which is fine by him cuz he always knew who was in charge.
Sometimes it takes a pending call from a good-looking woman.
Sometimes it takes all the brilliant thoughts on the walk home.
These thoughts are forgotten. No poetics, no heroics.
Sometimes you get the feeling stumbling in to a strange place that you're no better than an M1A1 Abrams with the full grace allotted to machinery... the soft paunch, the careful gaze, the loving hazel eyes...
Whatever it takes, I live to fight another day.
Sometimes you're left with a quagmire. Etymologically, that refers to swamps and mud, but we never had it so good.
Field reports. Slow turns. Brilliant eternities making paths shine.
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