SUNDAY BREAKFAST

Will the ancient outlaw ever again really enjoy the supreme satisfaction of coffee in anything but the hardness of a lone grey practicality with only the recalled delights of disheveled mornings as he sings the echoes of her blues? Sunday morning is, by definition the direct product of the Saturday night that precedes it, and if said Saturday night was spent with only poetry and hashish as protection, and TV ‘til dawn, what then? He stays among his books, his chemicals, and his pistols and makes no comment. To do otherwise would be to admit the fear – and that would never do. So uncase the colors for such guttering desperado glory that might remain, and…

…click here momentarily to wallow with Roy, then let’s feed the cat and get on with another desperate day.

The secret word is Holding