Monday, February 8, 2016


It's that razor-sharp wire that's bringing me
home; the threat of another beheading, more
blood on the lawn. The single-force line on
the front steps of doom : the raging office,
the dead-spot too soon. I fall asleep, or at
least nod off, with this thin newspaper over
my hands  -  another twenty ninnies dead in
some earthquake I dare not understand.
There's always another colossal error just
around the bend. On Park Avenue, the Ferrari
store, selling replicas of these little cars, with
jackets and expensive hats. A few fancy tourist-types
actually stop and look. The rich girl, behind her
rich-girl lobby alcove, looks up, then looks up
again. It's me she's staring down, as if with eyes
that say 'that bum best not step into here.'
I mumble back, 'I won't, not me,' and I know
what's going on : she's not somebody's mother,
and wouldn't be if she tried. She's only a haughty
'attainder', seeking to reach past the attainder stars
to clutch at a madness only she can feel. About herself
alone. That razor-sharp wire is all around her. Vanity
and ego, free to roam. I am nothing to her vamping
ways  -  but then again, neither is anyone else. Those
Tulsa tourists, with their oil-bulged wallets? Think
not of that. They're just as broke as folk, and would
probably rather drive a Denali to and fro. And she
disdains them too, and the ice she throws back is
all Winter-deadly-feeling. From razor-sharp
wire, no healing.

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