overhead the albatross

sorabji.com: Who are you?: overhead the albatross

By Nate on Friday, August 6, 2004 - 03:03 pm:

    yesterday smelled of the apocalypse. the fourth day of insomnia crazy caffeine wired arms and legs and thudthud heart, blue milk pale, immobile frown unshaven lockjaw, glancing suspicious through grey sky air, slip through angry buildings and zombies in gunmetal suits and skirts, black rivet teeth and wraught iron high heels.

    paused by the wells fargo atms, by the piss sidewalk doors of il massimo, across the street from the long line of immigrant, bored or hopeful, blue guards with guns and 9/11 concrete carbomb posts and glass doors of the federal building. you look up and one window in the whole federal building has an airconditioner hanging, oldman drool waiting to drip, to crush the tired, the poor, the masses huddled in line.

    on the sidewalk, by the wells fargo atms, the wings of a pigeon, alone, incorpreal, vaguely connected to each other where they were once connected to the bird. i looked around, up for the predator, some hawk perhaps picking bones in its urban aerie, unlikely.

    around the corner, stopped worrying about running into someone, they make extra effort to avoid me, my wan meat, pallid rot; my fishcold complexion. past the big red engines, firemen in firement clothes, japanese girl, unnecessary accessories. across the street the motion of a man pushing a cart up the curb, supplies in bags. from the end a bag falls, catches in the wheels of the cart before the man notices. another, tan man, stormsea green suit, unnecessary accessories, pauses to look, bag, man, adjust course, step around bag, cart, walk walk.

    it wouldn't have been hard to bend, lift, replace. help a man out.

    mindseye, cold textured metal, grip fills my palm, finger slips between trigger and guard, slips into violent cunt, squeeze drop man drop drop. mindseye, the cuncussion from my outstretched palm, vump! vump! compressed air dents BMW hoods, vump! pigeons dissolve into clouds of feathers, vump! vump! knocks toupes from heads, breasts from bras, life from vain agents of mediocracy and enemies of freedom.

    push through the glass doors of the Cage and into the elevator up six to the badge access door to the cubicle with my name my number in the penal colony.

    but the stimulants run free and legal.

    last night i slept, and when i arrived my feet on the window sill and 'echos' in my headphones and a seagull slipped in long, slow circles in the blue sky around the flagpole atop the federal building. the long stone walls and the mauve window seperations and the solitary in window air conditioner. two flagpoles and an anti-aircraft gun.

    you can't have mine, enemies of freedom.

By Antigone on Friday, August 6, 2004 - 03:54 pm:

    How's the NSA treatin' you these days, my man?

By Rick james on Friday, August 6, 2004 - 04:25 pm:

    they mostly leave me alone.

    though i know they planted the pigeon wings.

    i'm dead, bitch!

By Rowlfe on Saturday, August 7, 2004 - 12:39 am:

    how clever of you


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