what there is to have

saturday, october 21st

There is acid in the wind today. There is more phlegm in the spittle on the pavement. There is a heavy violet greasiness to the waft of product that remains like an unwanted hand on my shoulder from passing by the groups of haircutted yuppie-emulators. There is a wolvish honesty that the sharp drop in temperature has brought out from the practised protocol behind the smiles.
"Hello." You sound like a violin out of tune.
In summer, the new arrivals mistook it for a yodel of introduction.
Now it is yelp of that bastard inequality. We are all piano tuners under the skin, we've been pitched into unease.
Now is the time to refashion yourself into a Russian, what? English? it does not turn my head, does not resonate with me, I have no response, and you are left there, breathing your own air. How does that taste? While then, a ripple of reassessment mellifluates everybody; the terms of composure are dwelt upon.
Sometimes a non--answer makes you investigate the question. Warm your heart, cool your blood, come back from the frost, blink.