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Good Men in Old Flannels

(this is my rip on Bukowski's "quiet, clean girls in gingham dresses..."

a piece of work I loved so much I needed to possess it in some vague way)


(this is not an advertisement for a good man in an old flannel)

(nor is it my general sentiment toward men)

Good Men in Old Flannels


All I’ve ever known are lowlives, depraved degenerates, scumbags.

I see women with gentle men, kind men, men who stop the world to look at them.

I see them in town, having coffee.

I see them at farmer’s markets, holding hands, giggling at some fantastic joke that exists only between them.

I see them existing together in peace. In light. In harmony.


All I’ve ever known are lowlives—junkies, alcoholics, depraved degenerates, scumbags.

When I kick one to the curb, another arrives, baggage packed, ready to move in.


I see so many women with kind, gentle men in old flannels.

Men who do not run with wolves.

Men with hearts that are not selfish or predatory.


“Don’t ever bring a vagrant or a troubadour around,” I tell my friends. “I’ll fall irrevocably in love.”

“You couldn’t stand a good man, Hooker.”


I need a good man. I need a good man more than I need the six pairs of shoes I just added to my cart.

I need him so badly I can taste him against my lips.

I can feel his stubble, rough, beneath my fingertips.

I can feel his skin against mine.

I can see him lying across my bed.

I can see him scratching my dog.

I can see his old flannel hanging by my door.


Does he exist?

The degenerates keep finding me.

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