A “cruel pointillism” across the nation… can you decipher that?
14.
In 1961 I ambled the Street. The famous 2044 Mission Street I lived in, me and my mother. Get up early. Step downstairs. Turn to the right. The scene is narrow. It could be something by Dufy or Manet or Seurat. Rainy sidewalks, people, people, people. Naked papayas on wooden crates, tomatoes, chiles, bell peppers, potatoes, lettuce, apples and tangerines in tuxedos. People. You. Me. Walking to school. Ambling. Offering bodies, feverish, broken bodies. This never fades, the particles and brushstrokes still move and thrust me speckled onto the apple crates.. When I hang out with Frank Wilma it all comes back to me. When we talk, yap, smile, laugh, sometimes scribble on our notepads. We sketch the future. Bite into maple bars. Sprinkled donuts. Break time zones, laugh at the swiveling circus of nations and their uppity, cruel pointillism.
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