CADRE
The goose-stepping squadron of order-takers has
just walked by with their notebooks and pens in
hand. I was reminded - fleetingly - of those
Jehovah's Witness people who take acid and then
claim their God has spoken to them and their kin.
With a dimming notoriety, the lines are formed by
people with feet - but, really, are there any other?
And why then am I standing here watching? I should
not let them pass? Should I, in turn, bundle myself
perhaps away - into that ridiculous Barnes & Noble
in the old Citicorp Building as I still know it, paging
through some flabby automotive magazine, while
on the sidewalks below those people pass by?
Ad-men on a pilgrimage, lady order-takers with
cunts for brains, guys writing their phallic regrets
on pillars of salt? What's any of this about anyway;
and how in the world did I get here? Sodom?
Gomorrah? Salt, then, in these very festering
wounds, or something else entirely off
center yet still seeking to grow?
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