Sometimes I just spew my opinion onto these pages like a trick full of cheap bourbon in Hombre’s room of a border time meat market. This is different.
Your don’t have to like the Rain Dogs album. But it is why your prostate is enlarged, why your brakes pull to the left, why your significant other is looking for some strange and why your buck don’t go as far to your debt as it did the day before.
And, I hate to tell you this, but if you don’t know rain dogs, you probably are a rain dog. Rimbaud hand the hands of his gaulish forbears; inept at the flaying of beasts. You, sir or madam, have wet paws. Borges was blind and explained it as a nothingness, not a blackness. You, sir or ma’am, use your sense of smell, and it smells like wet dog.
You may think you are taking the commuter train into the city to earn a living wage for a days work, but, no, you sir or ma’am, are going up to Harlem with a pistol in your jeans, unless, of course, you are in Tennessee, which means you are going down to Harlan.
Time and tide may wait for no man, but you, sir or ma’am, it’s time time time that you love and it’s time time time.
Again, it’s just an opinion. Better to know you are a rain dog too than to be an ignorant rain dog. I’ve fallen for a tawny moor. Just sayin’.
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