Saturday, August 22, 2015


Frequently, the habit of declaiming things runs out, slides
down, disappears  -  that's why so many grow silent, no
longer even knowing what to say, let alone to think. 
I have seen this in the best of places, and the worst. The
Cevender Brothers Meat Market, for instance, where the
men with cleavers remain silent amidst all their animal
carnage. And the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, where
even the most robotic masters of self-discipline break 
down and utter only sighs.
Outside everywhere, the buses glide by, lit from inside.
I can see people's heads, with their newspapers or bags and
all those sporting hats : Red Sox, Rangers, Yankees, Pirates
and mets. What the Devil does it all mean? The bus carries
people, but not a sound.
I can recall, with a friend named Paul, one night well into 
the wee hours after two am, a bus ride back uptown; mostly
in silence,  as we passed The Dakota. It was 1972. He 
pointed, and said, 'see that building there, that's where 
they filmed the movie, 'Rosemary's Baby.' We both 
looked over, scanning together the post-midnight scene.

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