SHORE UP THESE PITS
Put the orchestra away and let's play solo; you and
I and that guy with no arms who plays drums. I'll
read Dante while you sing. This corner table now
seems too close. I want to branch out.
The dumbbell with the camera hat is talking pictures
again : he thinks he's 'taking' pictures, and even tells
his wife that he 'got the shot okay.' It's a mounted
wall-photo of two poodles, in the guise of, you're
supposed to think, kissing. It's kitsch; nothing
real at all. He's not taking, he's just talking.
There's a peanut place at the end of the block - into
which they enter. The aroma's OK, but the place itself
looks like it couldn't even bring a ransom. A Mexican
arriviste stands behind the counter, in place, just
grinning. He's here for a day's work - taking
people's dollars for someone else. He hands
then a soiled bag of oily peanuts.
On the outside doorway, it seems, for whatever
reason it has, there's a picture of Jimmie Hendrix -
exaggerated, yes, but it's him. If he had colored hair
and all of that. I don't know what any of its about,
and I never really even liked his stuff when he was
famous - maybe a little more now than them, I do.
But, whatever, it's all pointedly confusing : the
morning light, MacDougal Street, a coffee shop,
the two tourists, the peanut place, and Hendrix.
The cool, morning air tells me it's soon to really
be Autumn again. Not just in concept, but in fact.