On the avenue, I was unavoidably stuck inside of an uproar when the wind locked itself in front of my face.
Nevertheless, I had a smeary view of a child in the whirlwind who was walking backward. He was carrying his jacket instead of wearing it. And he kicked up his feet with such aptitude.
In a luncheonette that I took cover in, I overheard, “Yes, I do mind…”—this, while I was raising and rearranging memories of many people’s personal details, tryst locales, endearments—faces, genitalia, like Jimmy T’s, or Lee’s, which I pine for.
This is regular work with regular work hours that I do.
Through the windowpane of the coffee shop, I could see clearly into a hair salon across the street where two men—both with hairbrushes and small, handheld dryers—together—downstroked the mane of a cloaked woman.
The men were performing feats of legerdemain. Streamers sprang up around her head, as if snakes or dragons were busy eating their own tails.
And then, weighing down her shoulders, there was the golden hoard—for future use—of bullshit.