WORKMEN
We let the brown bags come by - the workmen all in
their coaches; the men of cinder and steel. I listen to
their banter and don't recognize a thing. I am left in
awe to wonder : what do I know of their world or they
of mine? I would deny all of their existences, all their
reality. I would avow it was all not there. They, in
turn,
would scoff at mine, and say I need repair. What kind
of world is this, in truth : this presence by which we
are made, is it not a one-for-one existence? I need not
be told to share it all - I would stand alone and
- in the
same way - fall. I do not seek another man's presence.
-
The man in the western movie seemed to be spitting
back blood; from a festering small wound all this
cinematic trouble had to come. Like the very world
itself around me, it's all tortured and maimed and
made up. These enigmatic man I am watching,
any one of them could be this man. A glimmering
illusion, a moving point, an image soon to
fade.
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