THE PANTOMIME OF BAD SURGERY
(Bronx, 2-14-09)
They were walking over the bridge, all these people,
as easily as driving - which cars were stuck in traffic.
Something akin to awaiting doom on the elevator down to Hell.
This was, after all, the Bronx. Honk after honk, the dishevelled
locals threw their aplomb to the wind, disdaining all they
took to be surplus : rules, traffic, variations of taste, the
very barter of cash and mind. It little mattered - fat-bottomed
mamas throwing themselves sideways along the walk, tough
thugs in cheap clothing, spinning yarns and asides in even
cheaper shirts. I'd guess it means a lot, in a country of such
poor renown, to know how to say something back
to an insult or a slight.
-
It's sometimes like this everywhere else:
my vacant mind, idle and poor, trudging
through something and impatient at
waiting. Loud music from a storefront
selling panties and bras. Lonesome
idle cowpokes throwing stones at
errant cattle. Well, at least no one's
yet electrified the fence.
They were walking over the bridge, all these people,
as easily as driving - which cars were stuck in traffic.
Something akin to awaiting doom on the elevator down to Hell.
This was, after all, the Bronx. Honk after honk, the dishevelled
locals threw their aplomb to the wind, disdaining all they
took to be surplus : rules, traffic, variations of taste, the
very barter of cash and mind. It little mattered - fat-bottomed
mamas throwing themselves sideways along the walk, tough
thugs in cheap clothing, spinning yarns and asides in even
cheaper shirts. I'd guess it means a lot, in a country of such
poor renown, to know how to say something back
to an insult or a slight.
-
It's sometimes like this everywhere else:
my vacant mind, idle and poor, trudging
through something and impatient at
waiting. Loud music from a storefront
selling panties and bras. Lonesome
idle cowpokes throwing stones at
errant cattle. Well, at least no one's
yet electrified the fence.
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