Friday, March 7, 2014

5145. NUANCE


NUANCE
No one understands that I have to work, that I have to
breath, all as if the same. No time for no time nowhere.
The laughing lady on the train-seat near me, she looks
dimly into space to fathom where she is, let alone
realize where she's going : black boots probably worth
a fortune and just as unwalkable as well. Why such heels
on a workable boot? No, they are not that at all. The proper
Scots guy across the way scribbles some text note drivel
by a two-finger touch onto a screen he's never heard of
before  -  all the while the world passes by unbeknownst
to his living day. No worry, he'll pay. I'm still thinking of the
lady with those boots : what's she doing? And why? Where
does her mind wander in midtown Manhattan? I have no
savage limits to what I can do  -  she really ought to watch
out. All those dead meadows are just rolling by.
-
My first job with a newspaper I was hired in by a grand girl
who wrote their 'fashion' pieces  -  covered such things as
Fashion Week and new-design openings and parties galore.
It was good, though I had nothing to do with that  -  covering
meetings and town boards and council, as they argued over
sewer bills or raises for the guys who did the garbage. A few
bedraggled locals always raging on about some pothole here
or a new house there, town and boro engineers farting in their
soup trying to answer what they didn't hear.
-
Every night of the week, or four anyway  -  it seemed. Listen
to this, do that, Turn in a story by 11:15, edit and verify all
night long; facts and figures and bullshit and drivel. By such
does the little man live. I'd have traded for some skirts and
champagne anytime, screwing around with the models, or
peeking beneath the transvestite's skirt.

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