SCRATCHING THE SURFACE
I want a thousand men to bow down, scribes with
their duties and wives with their dawns, dogs with
their owners and Gods with their lawns. I want it
all and I want it now. The old newspaper, from 1966,
just blew by the opening. I saw it, barely in time to
read a snatch of headline, something about DaNang.
-
Were I able to read the past I'd be able to read the
future. They both balance. The darning-needle that
floats through the air is silent, hovering over some
sort of a helicopter lake - this is before the bombs
and before the fire and before the napalm arrive.
-
The little girl is screaming again. Is that her
skin on fire? Is that her body burning? What
sort of creature does this to another?
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