SALAMANDER
DWELLS IN
BONES
Too many people ask me for good sense; I have
none really. Too many people seek to find my ways
out; I have none really. I go about my means, forced
by myself to function - first this, then that.
What
works, works well for me, at that instant; and then
it's over. I don't stay around.
-
I'm standing between two buildings: one of a
yellow, painted hue, and the other solid with
hundred-year-old brick. This is an old spot, here,
and I like it - it reminds me of, and I can
sense,
old industry and hard-working men. Block and tackle,
trucks and tracks, nails and hammers and labor.
None of that ephemeral stuff we deal with today.
-
Right over here, some jokers have landscaped a
very strict garden; a grove of flowers and seats,
molded chairs and a plastic-wood table. All crap,
even the plans for this must have smelled.
Distasteful as all, for me, this distended
parkspot dangles and gapes, tries hard
to be something it never can be - a real
and authentic place. Jesus God, do
I want to run and hide from this
pathetic waste.
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