There’s a rational insistence to a folk song, almost fascist by cause & effect. Here’s the injustice and here’s the solution if thee demands otherwise you’re an unethical biped. I attempt to whistle the folk song scale best I can, it’s difficult in a sense, when I’m resounding a throat scratching tune off the everyday walls of ordinary dimensions.
There I was strolling to the library, something like a song in my heart, when I spied a dime bag, placed like a card in a deck, between two grass blades. I stooped and lifted it, examined the discarded plastic. At first thought…it’s damn junkies! Of course, I hear the advice from addiction counselors presented on television as prejudices loop through my consciousness. I paused. Considered: is this the folk song I ought to be whistling? I pocketed the empty dope bag and threw it into a trashcan outside the library doors. From there I hunted & gathered materials required for distraction. A poor poet relies on the library like a junky relies on a dope dealer. A poetry book here, a few DVDs there and of course the “coup de grace” a book on tape which sampled various readings from poets too dead to contemplate the royalties lost. I checked out my materials and exited the building.
There I was strolling home, something like a spinach leaf in my tooth that I couldn’t stop picking at, when I spied another dime bag resting at the edge where sidewalk meets lawn. I grumbled and the words settled as a mussitation. DAMN JUNKIES! But a new thought sprouted roots and grew like a weed. What if the authorities are watching me? What if their plan is entrapment and some lone good Samaritan with a criminal history was their bait? I muted the ethical quandary for something more sinister, an answer…saving my own ass. I left the bag there, filled with my reverie.
This is my folk song now:
Allow the authorities to handle their own entrapments.