1200. HERE I AM

HERE I AM

(Reading, Pennsylvania)

I'm a half-feint from Thursday and better than that;

living large at the top of some Reading hill, at Duryea

Road, beneath the Pagoda, and looking down on a city

decrepit, a city of shit, a hell-hole too vile to tell. I don't

know how I got here, but I wasn't looking for this. Way

up this hill, of course, the old hotel is long gone, rocks

are a shambles, and the only thing left, this tower and

that Pagoda, are but distant reminders of a vivid, dead

past. People up here are talking. Like morons. Some

kid is babbling to his mother about where he wants the

X-Box put in the cellar so his friends can come over

and play. She, like the crackhead she wants to be, is

nodding some crazy assent without caring - while gazing

out from this very high window on the white paste of

Shit City below. A lot she cares. Another kid nearby is

pointing out to his girlfriend how he can make out his

house far down below. A local denizen, hey! The girlfriend

just smiles, and says 'can you?' as if it mattered whether he

said he could 'make out his house' far below or 'make out

in his house' far below. My own personal goon squad is still

listening. I was bored like a swallow on concrete waiting

for some bread. The Peace Bell at the top of the narrow

stairs, even that won't ring. I go up and slap it with my

palm and, damn, if it doesn't ring. Nobody hears, and I

don't say a thing. I'm thinking of jumping, but I'd probably

expire long before I hit. What's the use of all this? I

really don't get any of it. But, hey, as I said, 'here I am.'