BLUE IS THE NEW
SIDEWINDER MISSILE
Edward, or whatever your name really is, I am
so tired. Thanks to your lonely wife, my energy is
spent. I am a ghoul in a Brooklyn graveyard, running
through crypts to find a new black. Everywhere I go,
just a darkness I find : long ago, old tales and stories.
-
The spendthrift man in his shiny suit, he parks his
Studebaker at the curb and begins walking over : it
is 1954, and his swagger represents nothing so much
as that time - the tophat, the cigarette, the funny lurch
as he walks. Smoke curls, as if from the top of his head.
-
Then something gentle happens in the wind, and his new
wife comes down the steps nearby - I realize in an instant
what has happened : he has come back from the dead to
present her with another day and all the goodness he can
carry; from his netherworld of being, from his carriage,
from his crypt, delivered. I love these stories, always.
-
Icicles and moundmen, detectives and those instrumental
in saving lives; firemen in suited helmets and police drinking
coffee while they stand in the park. All stories. All so real.
This life has become an illusion to me.
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