by James Croal Jackson
The weekend is not long enough to complainof having too much fun. We need to fill our house with junk. Drove into the wilderness and parkedon a verdant suburban hill. Arrivedearly but stood in line. Hoarders stacked their bags withpostcards and pictures and I just had to buy the binocularsfor 35 and you said 35?Hey, the family is dead andI was a kid in the candyaisle. I wanted to store my free time closer to me so we got second breakfastat the Aspinwall RiverfrontPark and I utilized the specsto pull a goose in theriver close to me! Spectacle in the monotony!Rest is underrated and–we’re critical– undeservedbut I’m putting the hours in.Raking through thrift storesof junk and sink-drain art. Noone wants to buy any of thisbut birdcage carts fill fast.Bought a backpack atthe Morningside yardmarket trudging throughsun, red forehead. Scammedagain by a hamburgerhelper (you said it’scalled a burger basket)but I tried and couldn’tuse it on the gas grillin moaning distanceof whatever zombies were in my neighborhoodtoday, and I ascendedfour steps to geta better view to find nothing in ouralleys but laughterand I peered throughmagnificationsto leave my eyesempty-handedbut satisfied,this beingthe wayto spend.