Je Ne Vous Touche Pas

“Je ne vous touche pas…”

‘Twas true, too: he wasn’t touching him. But that didn’t mean his loud, jangling ‘scuse for music being wrenched out o’ that tacky organ wasn’t prodding his ears, that the odors o’ rancid pork & cheap whisky didn’t drill into his nostrils, that the gaudy primaries painted all o’er his sideshows didn’t sear his eyes, hole to thin to fit through be damned.

& what was worse was that no matter how many times he’d move, ‘nother 1 o’ them would always manage to move in next to him…


Edger, Kiosk, Pavilion