MIKE MARSHALL
Two Austrians. Five people from Greece.
Leave me a hint at the door why I've never
left home. I've sharpened this pencil with
writer's blood. Pieces of my heart still dangle :
like a terrorist's bomb, blown all about.
-
I haven't changed Tuesday for Wednesday;
no, nothing like that. All I have is this
felt-covered notebook. Walking around.
I write addresses and the names of the
things I think about. There's not really
anything left now, but for ghosts.
-
I am talking to a man who carries laundry
detergent in his plastic bag : having just come
out of the small store nearby, he begins chatting
about being here 'nine years'. In this town, he says
'things are not so bad - police keep the order, but
nothing is ever amiss.' He says he came here, back
then, from first Johnstown, then Queens. '150th street
in Queens to be exact; oh yeah, I've been around.'
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