5378. THE TWO DARK-HAIRED ONES

THE TWO DARK-HAIRED ONES

Carbine and carbonation  -  both regarding a sizzling

scene. The twenty-five men I've seen, down from the 

hills, are chewing and smoking tobacco; little care in 

this world for anything else once these military basics 

are taken care of. I can hear the breathing of the lame

guy on the floor next to me, down and sleeping. We

await some new directive : run, stay, flee or fight.

My gun is shiny. Here comes the night.

-

I once  -  long ago  -  used to read my books by the

lamplight of the dead of the night; Joyce and Mann and

Kafka and Sartre. Now all those guys are dead, many

new writers are female, I read little and  -  oh, I forgot

to mention  -  civilization has crumbled. We are the

marauders, right here where used to be Sixth Avenue,

tall buildings inhabited daily by pretty young things

working on high for something or other. Now it's all

gone. The street's used for fighting, skirmishes and

invasions. The idea of all that was : gone, gone, gone.

We live amidst an anarchy new. Men from those 

Harlem Hills are coming for me.