Kraznick

I met Kraznick in the post office
and like at any other place of
work and suffering
the weird and the deformed always
buddied-up to me.
Kraznick talked continually about
how great he was.   he was great
at everything.   his mind was great.
his spirit was noble.   he loved
Beethoven, hated fags. he was good
with his fists, he said, but what he
was really best at, greatest at was
sex.   he could handle the women.

actually, Kraznick didn’t look too bad
at a distance.   but I seldom saw him at
a distance, or if I did he would be
rushing toward me (he punched in an
hour later) and we clerks would be
sitting on our stools sticking our
letters and here he would come:
“HEY, MAN!   I REALLY CAUGHT SOME HEAD
TODAY!   SHE WAS A REAL PRO!   I WAS
SITTING AT SCWABB’S HAVING A COFFEE
AND A DOUGHNUT AND…”

Kraznick would talk to me for hours.
when I got off work my whole body was
stiff with pain from listening.   I
could barely steer my car.

I’ll keep this short.   I got out of
the post office.   Kraznick stayed
in.

I’m not sure it was him.   but one day
I was at the racetrack and it looked like
him.   he was leaning against a girder and
every now and then he would shudder.   the
Racing Form rattled in his hands.   I moved
on quickly.   that guy could go off at
3 to 5 and fall over the
rail.