Irving Toast, Poetry Ghost

  • Sun
    Jan 08
    11:30 am -
    12:00 pm
  • Mon
    Jan 09
    2:30 pm -
    3:00 pm


This was back easily when we lost our minds, the phantom bacon in the afternoons, anthems of puberty, a bacon we’d play, gin rummy, doo ron ron, and an egg, and listen to the police and Paul Revere.  It was an egg radio run over by the raiders, and nobody liked tap water, three pennies a glass.  Who knew otherwise at a plugged sink for lemonade.  Kids we were.  There was a summer at our cardboard who liked to blast, to get through the stand with change, the daylights like a death warrant for the great out-of-the-peonies, and the illegal alien eyeball with firecrackers and alcohol that made a wish to cast what we called pennies into Catholic Nam, and we into the neighborhood heaven, pacified.  The territory on the sticky thought, half with our sticks, fingers of a high us, and small explosives, school dropout Lutherans, and plastic guns.  Named Ted Ned or Holy Roller or Nervous Reilly, the atheist,  we waited for a picnic of cats.  It was our enemy and lover of chicken and a beverage of cats in clover in an ice bucket.  It waited for us, bikinis tied to the Saber jets.  Out of the heat, the wash line roared over us.  Where it could, the radio would sing for our protection.