The golf hustler ghosted during the high heat of 83. His fiancé, having handed over some folding money, moved me to reconnoiter those beach front dives that divot the boardwalk of Ocean City.
The barkeeps held their tongue, and the cops didn’t give a sand trap about some gone missing former felon with a rap-sheet the length of a par five tee-shot. In fact, any ex-con also labeled a legitimate scratch golfer had the boys in blue seeing green.
It took the turn to the off-season, but I found our missing Mr.Twigs. In parts, buried amongst the new construction of the, “Afraid Of The Dark” miniature golf course. One Y.A. Duffer, being the principal owner.
Seems Mr. Duffer didn’t want his daughter, my client, to nest build with a jail-bird, irrespective of his future son-in-laws golf shot acumen.
My client cried for a week. But my remuneration came on time, and included a hefty bonus.
The Flash Fiction above is a repost. The tone poem below is brand spankin’. And yes, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, as I now think I can mix these things. I can’t, but I will soon, when I stop getting seduced by some fine UI that’s seduces one to mix with one’s eyes. I’m serious. I’ve got a reverb plugin’ that’s a light show dream. Anyway…it’s a blind attempt at ambient/chillwave/lo-fi. Bye.Follow You Cant-Practice Poetry on WordPress.com