I've been in constant communication with my friend, the writer William Joyce (who also writes under the name Guillermo O'Joyce). He had to leave the U.S. as he couldn't survive on his S.S. and went to Guatemala, but between the civil war going on and the outlaws and a still-high cost of living, he recently left to go live in Mexico where he is currently. He tells me the cost of living is half what it was in Guatemala and infinitely safer!
Yesterday was his birthday (75) and he sent me this poem which I'd like to share with you. He'd just colored his beard and was bummed out the ladies weren't complimenting him on it. Like me, he knows the veracity of that saying, "Just because there's snow on the roof doesn't mean there's not a fire down below..."
Hope you enjoy his poem!
He wrote me:
Tomorrow
I turn 75 but none of the ladies have congratulated on my beard dye.
Wrote a poem about it.
Wrote this poem for my birthday:
Fuck People
If they're going
to go on
making a nuisance
of themselves
with cell phones,
poking
head down
running into you
on the street,
fuck people.
Bomb them,
hang them
from lamposts,
if they keep up
that insane poking
with their heads down
and can't see
the brilliance
of my beard dye,
fuck them,
start the bombs
falling.
As their heads
come off
they'll still be
poking.
Thanks, William. Happy birthday, old warrior!
Blue skies,
Les
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