Feathers of flight, crushed bonely remnants of life, gun blasts and gory frights. The city I love has possessed me in panic-attack for a week. Yes, women are crazy, driven to madness by love; driven over brinks by despair. Yet we repair by plastered bandages and heart-songs rivenned out of life’s thin air.
When the Boston hostage crisis was finally over last night, I drove very slowly to Walmart with the breezy windows down. I smoked a cigarette in the parking lot; listened to Dionne Warwick in the car. I spent two hours sauntering through aisles reading labels. Smuckers’ Natural is actually merely made from just peanuts. It was like anti-Christmas, alone in the aisles with the overnight elves stocking shelves, and the stalking in Boston was done.
If I were a motorcycle I would not be wearing a helmet today.