My childhood was a kaleidoscope of paralegal experiences.
My father was a modern slave
Posing as a drum-playin’ factory workin’ chicken farmer
From a part of Pennsylvania that just recently got electricity.
He was partial to low grade blow-ups
And had a penchant for hunting two-legged dear,
As well as the conventional four-legged versions.
My mother was an eighteen year old English hair-stylist named Bernice
Who was addicted to Sealtest ice cream and veal scaloppini.
My father would chase pigs around the neighborhood,
Drink Rock N’ Rye whiskey,
And claim that he had been a champion pole-vaulter.
We’d beg him to take us to the Brown Derby
For a chocolate-dipped ice cream cone
And he would say, “Let’s not and say we did.”
We’d tell him that he wasn’t as smart as he thought
Because he wasn’t rich —
And he would just put on a Ralph Kramden smile
and say, “Don’t you wish.”
I spent summers pretending to read comic books
On the neighbor’s front porch,
Begging for spare change from used furniture buyers,
And picking strawberries.
I had a secret place under the porch
Where I learned to meditate and plan my life.
I ran away when I was seven —
Was detained by the railroad police
While loitering around the switchyard,
Then sent to bed with no dinner.
At the age of eight I smoked my first cigarette,
At eleven my first cigar,
Kissed my first lover at twelve,
And stole home at thirteen.
I was able to escape from America when I was eighteen
By impersonating a sub shop owner,
And became a world citizen
After breaking every taboo described in The Book of the Dead.
I learned to trade by losing my shirt 42 times
And by doing marketing work for GeeMeeBeeMee Enterprises.
Eventually I became a trading consultant
After racking up over 5 million Mauritian rupees in unrealized gains.
gregswimelar 