When not paying attention I
realize I'm thinking how good it would feel to kick down a door. Something
urgent needing me on the other side.
Last day of fire class no one
could find the key to the padlock on the ladder shed. "Take it off,"
they told us; I took up a flat-head ax and Bob grabbed a Halligan bar.
What a great feeling to wreck things and walk away.
A woman applying lipstick to
the stone face of a library lion.
A fight between drunken boys
in front of a bank of softly undulating store-window lavalamps.
Rich enough to go into the
Japanese store and buy all the stones carved with sappy inspirational
words. A bag full of "Imagine" and "Believe" and "Creativity"
and "Faith" which you later dump off the Memorial Bridge into
the river. One by one they fall, smooth and twisting gently before they
touch the water and vanish with almost no sound at all.
The film gets hung up on the
projector and the scene freezes: a spaceship held motionless against the
stars. Then the film melts, brown soapy edges opening to become white
light. Many people in the theater groan; many more cheer, though they
paid to be here.
From the window of a car sliding
past the police station, a hand baring a solitary middle finger.
Tourists in the Catacombs touch
the smooth ends of long-dead femurs. In damp, lyed semi-darkness, some
blush without knowing why.
This man standing at the fence
in the zoo, describing the sea lions for his blind son. Sometimes he lies,
just a little bit, to make the animals' antics sound funnier than they