Excerpt. . .

He was jangled all right, he was hyped, he was wired like a friggin’ amplifier. He was electric, could look down at his arms and see his life blood running hot and blue through his skin; he could see through his shirt and through his skin and see the electricity – he was strong and rootless, not concerned in anything outside the act of living. He knew this was how the real poets felt, intense and feverish with the sensation of the edge, the fringe. As a child he had sat on edge of the slanted roof and felt the warm tar under his palms. He could reach the roof by climbing out of his bedroom window, which was recessed, onto a small ledge and shuffling over until he reached the brown slant of the roof of the room next to his. He would sit with his feet braced against the friction of the tar and his knees against his chest, loving the feeling of the edge just beyond his shoes. It was lovely, the space between his body and nothingness, like the space now between his nerve ends and his weariness. It made him conscious of his luckiness, the luckiness of life.

He wanted to talk; god, he wanted to talk. He was starting to feel beat, but he was still alive, and he wanted to talk. He wanted to tell someone about his day, about the waiter, Yankell, who thought he recognized him from a movie. “Is a bit piece,” he kept saying, muddling his English in a lovely fashion. About the homeless guy who thought the other homeless guy was his father. “Hey,” he said. “Hey, are you my father? I’m looking for my father.” Aren’t we all, he thought.


1 Comment »

  1. Rebecca Said:

    The rhythm and energy of this piece is great! (I’m sure you’ll pardon the subjectivity of my statement because you undoubtedly would agree with me.)

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