Listen Up, Old Bastard

Listen Up, Old Bastard


There comes a time to roam the world. After the debts are paid
(or successfully ditched) and after the charming children are
safely careered or married, there comes a time to sell the
house or break the lease, a time to break the leash
and roam the world. But you must move quickly:
an old dog must trot chop-chop (and you do remember how?)
to escape the four warm tar babies of the "new" apocalypse;
comfort, companionship,

Social Security and medical science, whose grand and
well-lit hospitals are dark and narrow hallways to the
grave, laundry chutes to the garbage cans of the moon.
But mostly an old fool must speed up (chewing a few
peyote buttons might be indicated as a radical jump
start; but consult your local witch doctor) to escape

the quivering pit of bullshit, pride and opinions
that he's spent a lifetime making and has come
to call his featherbed. You'll know it's time
when you see that the grass is red, not green,
when "every" day is dead, like Sunday or your

birthday, and when the buried roots of trees
shine brighter than the branches. Wake-up,
old man (ravaged face in the mirror), let's
go. Together we might find the younger

woman, man, or whatever, whose eyes
flood sunshine and who seems
perpetually poised for flight.

Together we might slide
on by the garbage cans

of the moon.

(Dream
on).


Harvey Goldner