Wooly Mammoth Man

Wooly mammoth man was 92, and knew his days were crumbs on God's fat plate of goodies, the plate that once bore his largess, like treasure into Rome: Blondes, vulnerable and dumb; Money, plentiful and fun; Time, from a flooded market -- cheap, like air; and friends:  gullible fools, and bar buddies, fat with testosterone and mirth, and he, tall in success and power. No.  Wooly mammoth man had lost it all. The world had misplaced his address. Even his pants wouldn't stay up anymore, and slid to that narrow line on hips where indecent exposure muscles up to piousness, and knocks that sucker over... (And, he, with a sly grin on his face, like a man pointing a 44 at a store clerk.) Wooly mammoth man hated himself, and it spilled over onto humanity like a running hose in a horse trough. Italy!  Italy was all he could think about. If he could only get back to Italy: His youth would rush back and kiss him like a desperate prostitute. The women would grovel at his feet. He might get one more cookie, fat with his own approval of himself. He would be hot to warn Ulysses of the perilous sirens, joke around with Michelangelo, while he worked on the Pope's project; and later in the afternoon, after Cappuccino on the Via Venetto, run down by market cart to Calabria, and murder his own father in his cradle. Written February 6th, 2002 © on Feb 06 2002 08:57 AM PST, Carole Dudley   0 • 20 • 10