Amos Hart--Multivocal

   
   "Amos Hart--Multivocal"
  
   Ya, I dig spitting on the sidewalk; plus, why can my dumb by delightful dog urinate in public and I can't restfully relieve my urethra's need to dynamically dilate and happily whiz behind a dumpster in an alley after the diarrhea on the commode in the shady eatery made me change my mind about urinating in public?
   My name is Amos Hart.  I'm blonde, have chocolate brown eyes; also, I'm a modern journalist, penning the squeeze upon criminals, and nobody seems to care, but I spit on the sidewalk, so I figure I'm in league with prostitutes.  I carry a snickersnee for protection.  Tennessee knife laws are pure freedom, and a blade is good for close-quarter combat, or as my educated dame declares the act of sharp fisticuffs:  "Combative anthropology."
   She's a firecracker.  Chaste, metaphorically; specifically, she only falls in love with love, falling forward, and never dresses pretty for herself--she just is herself, and pilots a cycle, an Enduro that's lime-green and mean, running like a scalded dog.
  But back to me.  She, uh Ginger--is just my partner.  My story is where it starts before I crafted her with my rib; moreover, the portion of my rib's frequency, so to speak.
   I like the smell of antiquated print media.  A magazine, a paperback book, and a newspaper.  I can't smell the EMF stuffamajug from the computer screen, and I always get shocked, not always, but when I touch my dog after surfing for a new Ka-Bar to possess, only in order to make me feel more like James Bowie.  But don't want a blade as long as his; I'm no showman.  I like puppies and seeing the ponies run.  Wanted to be like Bogart or Magnum; however, I don't own a fancy coat, and journalists are all considered riff raff nowadays.  Go figure.  Like Joyce knew--when you put words on paper, somebody is going to get pissed off.  Hell, it's even true with just talking.  So, I go to the park and take pictures of birds, mammals, and the sleeping beauty of the Moon losing a bit of reflection.
   Liked Huckleberry Finn better than Tom Sawyer.  Sawyer seemed a bit of a snob--in my opinion.
   Oh well, gotta get on the beat.  There's an angry coydog picking off suburban bunnies.  Not a hunter, just gonna write about it.  My dog's name?  Simply:  Bucko.  When I take him to the vet--it's Bucko Hart.