Sunday, July 13, 2008


The drunk lit beneath the dome light pleading to driver of the struck car. The drunkard's car steaming, fender to engine, radiator fuming, in reverse, attempts to angle an escape but finds herself wedged in by the H2. She only pleads after the man has exited his vehicle made for war, after he threatened to ram her for attempting to leave, after the bar patio crowd salivates, "hit 'em" "hit 'em", but are left unfullfilled, but satisfied, because the sound of fiberglass bending lends the imagination the sound of broken bones or the symphony of desire restricted and finally unleashed, violence as contact too long awaited. She wins sympathy or doesn't, but she's talking, and that's something, considering she went up a one way against the traffic around office buildings that want to be skyscrapers when they grow up...hit em ... hit em... around neon signs that attract no attention or mirrors that call no reflection of one's image of oneself, other than ours the face of downcast shadows beneath the domelight of the jarred door, pleading. Pleasing. Hit em.

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