July 27, 2007

Another season, but the same old feelings
Another reason could be
I'm tired of aching, summer's what you make it
But I'll believe what I want to believe

Harry Callahan, Eleanor, Chicago, 1949

The Welsh People
-- Terrance Winch

— for Doug Lang

The Welsh People are waiting for me
in the Childe Harold. It is 1973. The Welsh People
have been drinking and playing Pac Man.

I go out carousing with the Welsh People.
They are all on strike because the authorities
want them to stop stealing books. It is two hours before
closing time and the Welsh People have already had 18 Irish Coffees.
They do not like the authorities. These are my Welsh People.
The Welsh People stop by with all the music of the 1940s
re-arranged Welsh-style onto hundreds of cassette tapes
and we listen all night amid the stolen books. We are
smoking a lot of cigarettes and dope with the Welsh People.
Welsh People like to make lists that have thousands
of items on them and that go back many years.
List-making is an ancient Welsh art, dating back
to Richard Burton, a Welsh person. Some of the other
Welsh People are called William, Anthony, Ivor, Allan,
Dylan, Bob, Tristam, Romney, Meredith, Lucky, Sluggo,
Gwynn, Gwyneth, Glenda, Lloyd, Llewellyn, Puff Daddy,
Becky, Andrea, Mary Ellen, Sandra, Cordelia, Calvin Lewis,
Anthony Hopkins, Tom Jones, Boom-Boom, Rocky, Ringo,
T-Bone, J. J. Lyly, Lefty. But mostly they are named Doug.

I see the Welsh People eating Welsh rabbit, or is it
rarebit? This is cheese and beer on toast. It is very healthy,
the way the Welsh People like everything to be. To build
up your Welsh vocabulary, simply type “Ll,” close your eyes,
and randomly hit letters on the keyboard. Many Welsh People
are known to get angry and set fire to their homes if the landlord
replaces the deluxe toilet bowl with a much smaller one.
The Welsh are called "The Fire People" because of
their magic Chevrolets, which they are not licensed to drive.

Some of the favorite places of the Welsh People are
The Cozy Corner, Kramer’s, The Hotel Wallaby,
The Rondo, Folio Books, The Cafe Splendide, The Fox and Hound,
The Tabard. The Welsh People smoke while playing soccer
near the castle ruins. They prefer taking drugs
and listening to jazz over working in the coal mines.

I want to explain how the Welsh People have phone bills bigger than
their rent, but I can’t.

I am with the Welsh People and they say to me
the trouble with the future is that it doesn’t stop
when it gets to the place you want to be.
I agree.

I am thinking of the Prince of Wales, a royal person.
When he calls his girlfriend and tells her he’d like to be her Tampax
the Welsh People finally accept him as their prince.
Not since Gruffyd ap Llewelyn and Owen Glendower
have the Welsh People been so pleased with a leader.

The Welsh People are riding in a cab, which is
the only officially sanctioned Welsh means of transportation.
I used to worry about the Welsh People until I realized
that they are at one with the universe and are protected
from all harm by their impenetrable spiritual armor
and by all the things they learn by watching cable t.v.
If the food is good, the Welsh People will eat
every last molecule. They will smoke all the cigarettes,
drink all the drinks. This is the secret of their success,
which is itself a secret.

A long time ago, the Welsh People came to America
and began biting Americans on the ass. This delayed
the issuance of their green cards for many years. I used to
think the Welsh People were a bunch of freaks,
wandering around Dupont Circle leaving tips that were
often really just too generous for the service they got, but
now I have come to realize that where there’s smoke
and fire, there’s Welsh People throwing a party.

-- Sam Abrams

I once got high with Miles
and Joe Early
hunched against the wind
in an alley off 2nd
off that fat hash roach

Curriculum Vitae
-- Samuel Menashe


Scribe out of work
At a loss for words
Not his to begin with,
The man life passed by
Stands at the window
Biding his time

Time and again
And now once more
I climb these stairs
Unlock this door—
No name where I live
Alone in my lair
With one bone to pick
And no time to spare


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