It may have been a frequent occurrence for such a sign to be erected. It may be a good idea to insert the warning in shoe boxes, for there are cracks in many floors. Yet the purpose of high heels is to be noticed. It is a high risk endeavour.
Think: the ghost in Amadeus, Salieri trying to haunt Mozart With the image of the father Demanding excellence. Some believe it is good To require To judge To reprimand To beat And what did you get, at the end? Resentment. So, you ask, is Laissez Faire Any better? Is the writer without angst Not a writer? Is the army without the dehumanizing good at winning wars? And yet Whose war was it When the voice said In a celebratory tone To go ahead With the rope The wobbly chair Whose war was to be won? Yours, an odd war In which the other, The different, Isn’t deserving of a life.
I am using this blog as the repository of my drafts Because I am scared I am afraid that my words Will never reach you In the little time left
Life was hell, if you missed the last bus. Life was hell in our suburb anyway. We lived in the better part of the newly formed city, I was reminded every time I criticized it. But the walk home, across the bridge and through the not-so-better part of the newly formed city, where people drank their beer on the porch without bothering to pour it into a glass, was long and arduous. You wanted to avoid being seen by passing motorists, half of whom felt delighted by the sight of your thighs. Some day I should carry a pair of jeans to school, change into them there, but not change out of them on the way home. She would say something if she saw me, but they were always downstairs watching TV when I came in, so I could quickly go to my room and change. Sometimes I could even stay in my room and they wouldn’t bother checking how my day had been. Generally you came downstairs, sat on the couch and let your …
it was very cold… making it difficult to do fine adjustments!
Found black leather bound note book with journal entries starting December 7 until the last one December 21, Solstice Day. It was at the top of the escalator, swept by every step rolling into the metallic comb, at the Embarcadero Muni Station, some time past nine pm. There was no name and address in the book, but well-structured notes taken at the end had plans to find a place to stay, among other things. The first journal entry speaks of the author liking a woman called Cindy, but the last entry, on Solstice Day, is written hastily with a bad pen and concludes with “too much speed, not enough sleep.” In retrospect, when I entered the BART side of the station, there was someone who seemed to be having a bad trip on top of the gates, the attendant not minding anything but his own business. How could I know, at that time, this could have been the writer? I left it on the round stone bench at the east side end of the BART …
the peach at the top of the world was destined for the blender in the morning
