Our Man in Europe/now Belize/Dave Delacroix: "Dead Man's Plaid."
...Once again, I forgot my computer Password. We Non-Techies R in a morass of Communion Hell. Damned Zippo lighters on the blink too. My "rollie" cigarette got a serious droop. Yet MEIN GOTT! it's not supposed to be like THIS....I envisaged a lonesome/dilapidated rooming house/toilet down the hall, predictable background, friendless to demise (for all my acknowledged Sins) haunted by past loves, sleepless nights, a lone trumpet on a rainy boulevard, no way to communicate, friends, loves, man or beast, yet somehow, as sometimes, the World's YEAST curdles.
Once again, GOBSMACKED into Hell. A labyrinth of indecision. Where goes the ebbtide of my inner rage, that powerhouse upon which I depended, now saying: "Arrivederci!" leaving me at the gate of nowhere, Palookaville! ...No map, no compass, no astrolabe, no day or night, nor a SUIT of dead man's Plaid, just an array of fright, a Dante's inferno where, as I plunge downwards, I briefly shake hands with past buddies, budettes, the fools & the clowns who - naturally, as I spiral/one way street - glad-hand, wish me well & "if it comes out kosher" will always welcome me back and say: "Ce sera-sera!", my story, OUR story...life's shallow wishing Well.
c.2026. Dave Delacroix.
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