I am
resting in the 
bitterness of 
nostalgia.
Here, 
only the 
past is 
golden.






blunderous laughter roars from
beyond the fences of your yard.
travelling like messages in
a jar you hear the content, the
buckets of words in the 
jabber of mouthless teeth, 
but you can not make 
sense of the joy.








no no I gave up on the park
I can't compete.
it's too dangerous
too many bicyclists.
you got them whizzing around you on boths ides, rining their little bells  and yelling 
"ON YOUR RIGHT" like I'm supposed to dive out of your fucking 
way? fuck off, jackass, learn to read a fucking arrow, the arrow is pointing that way, 
you are riding the other way, you are doing thew wrong the wrong 
so fuck you with you rsaving the plaNet "we're not going awaaaaaay" prepeared speech, 
nobody fucking cares about your pathetic activist agenda.you don't 
have a license to drive that missle, you have no accident insurance, and when you 
run me over (as you've done) you run away pumping your fist because you are saving the 
planet and have no funds or time to do combat with the injury you casued, death is the only 
threshold which  you recognize, death and manslughter, and you will 
meet that threshold, you will cause deatha nd then I will chew on the scrutiny 
of your self-serrving excuses to explain why that elderly 
pedestrian is to blame for beng in the sidewalk, or why you killed that young person. 
stay off the sidewalk, learn to 
read an arrow, stay inside your little magical magic carpet 
precious fucking bike lane before it goes awaaaaaaay.

For your own purposes you strain the capacity for a window to enlighten, for its abundant wash of revelation into the humanity of self-satisfied idleness. A brightly-yellowed cab rolls past, slowing, stopping, the driver twirls his wrists. An elderly woman in a pink shirt hustles past, remarkably fast, reminding you of a passage from an Ambrose Bierce story you read in high school. A sprinkling of dead leaves speckles the newly paved street, that pavement which filled your home with early-morning megaphone announcements and the foul stench of fresh tar. The flowers will decay. Recently flaming red the neighbor's abundance of flowers now frown with the maroon of seasonal death. People gabbing into cell phones, a vision unimaginable in your youth. Satellite dishes the size of human heads, also unimaginable when dishes were the size of houses. There are 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 steps from the sidewalk to the front door of the house across the street. A familiar looking stranger parks his car and walks north as another human gabbing into his cell phone passes. The sounds of an EMERGENCY construction truck with the words STUCCO BRICK POINTING, and ROOFING on its side, the sounds of men loading and unloading the material from the bed of the truck. You count automotive specimens, anticipating a project of local photographic inventory. There are 13 cars and one truck within visual range. One motorcycle. 0 bicycles. Correction: 15 cars, referring only to stationary vehicles, not the many passing cars which pass in ways you interpret variously. Some cars pass solemnly, others roll by at peace, some proceed with idle happiness. You just spotted a limo driver in a Lincoln Town Car reading a book whilst his vehicle was in motion. Another elderly woman walks spritely past, wearing a brown jacket and carrying a backpack. Who is she? When can you know all people, and all things about them? When do the clouds of obscurity shielding human beings from each other evaporate like an unwelcome sulky morning fog. Here passes a man with a teal and white striped shits, a dark jacket, and tan pants. And a red-headed child runs south as her redder-headed mother follows. Your fingernails seem to grow so quickly these days. You swear you just cut them to the nub but the growth of decay is relentless, the nails sharply trailing your motions, those of the city sea around you. Ladders. Ladders. Everywhere you see ladders. Obsolete portals to nowhere, from nowhere, gangly and rusted passages of inconvenience and unexplored freedom. You have lolled on your fire escape, in the darks of a cold cold night, the skies a blazing race of clouds and the air a brick of cold. How many years have you looked out this window with no comprehension of the things outside? How many thousands of photos have you taken of things you did not see? Not the passing strangers and the gliding vehicles but the stationary objects which furnish your mind. Windows agape, their residents busily exhibiting themselves as you watch. The man who has left his house 3 times a day for years, thousands upon thousands of times you have seen him open the door, step outside, and close the door behind him. He walks. He goes to the driveway. He goes to the sidewalk, and walks north, south. A young boy eating pizza and walking with a deliberate limp walks north as his too-heavy backpack nearly slides against the sidewalk. A thin man in white t-shirt walks his white dog. The screen begins to eat at your eyes, eat at your vision of things. You move your head slightly to experience the roiling visual noise of the screen. The sounds from the truck continue. Stray words seem to fly past but you can not bat them down. You see 2 remaining flame red roses in the dying bed of maroon flowers. Like all beautiful things you have an unquenched hunger for roses. 10.10.12