SEEING IS BELIEVING?
One such stolen moment is enough to make one
cry : a stolen car, a broken key, a mistress. I am
Spartacus. I am brave Ulysses. I am Odysseus.
I am Telemachus. (I want to find Rilke, but he
is gone). All that swarming emotion. Are you
committed to walking around? Do you have, or
need, a girlfriend now? 'Mike paid a woman who
lived down the street...' I stopped listening, and
just walked away. Most spare time is uneventful -
the Brooklyn Navy Yard, all those finicky artist
types, and those middle-aged women discovering
new callings : canvas boards, crumpets, tea, cakes
and platters. Frozen jewelry braised by fingers;
soft spots of quartz and gold, the lace of things
all woven together as one. We sing. Maladroitly,
yet we sing. I have a chaser to follow my beer.
I have a chaser to follow my beer (and that's
another thing most annoying here, the artisinal
quality of home-brewed beer).
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