They are setting tiles by the wildflowers near the
urns filled with seltzer and plain water, one's choice,
side by side. The peculiar lightbulbs throw a funny
light - downward, onto balding heads and overly
treated hair. Women too nattily dressed for anything
real find they have now no sex to reveal. There are,
everywhere, the pencils and pens of another age.
All things are relegated here to 'reality'
- take it as it comes.
Gentlemen stroll in, wearing the tophats of fez and
fedora. Ameliorating circumstances mix all these
races together as no one speaks for they all speak
at once. Microphones bigger than Pepin are scattered
about; large silver items into which people talk.
A certain form of awkwardness abounds.
Were these mere crimes of neglect - like an
overtime meter or a traffic violation - perhaps then
one could go for lunch, or take a drink, or dash to
the phone booth to talk. But, instead of that, these
mesmerizing items become a photo-shop of lurid
fantasy - all skin and teeth and emaciated people
standing off and staring out. All those violated women,
they too watching back, try now to remember what
they once sought only to forget. The world's a jumble;
and it hasn't really even started yet.