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Frank S. Palmisano III |
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JAMES Police Intervention is what they call it, when the old man, barely able to walk, lifts himself from the bus seat and hobbles to the Royal Farm Store, where he spreads a dirty afghan on the concrete pavement. His eyes are a ghostly blue haze, and I can't quite make out his ethnic background, some kind of mix, and a complexion that's sullenly pale. Between his abrupt pleas for change, he tells me how he's got a job lined up next week, until he returns next week, planted in the same spot. And to make matters worse, he's got a name, a human name like James. And now, I greet him with more than a handful of change. And now, he never bothers me for any, likes the company instead. And when I have time, I talk with him, tell a story, share a laugh, and listen... But on occasion, a dollar is still worth more than the words I speak, and he grumbles because he knows that words are all I have. It's the dollars that don't come easy, for him or for me. FROM EAST TO WEST I left for California years ago before redline warnings and ozone depletion were front page news When Western Expansion was just a history lesson I dipped my pen in the San Andreas fault and drew out passion wrote fondly of blue-coated waters where oil-cooked bodies bask in honey-soaked sunlight And I could forgive an actress her eating habits and an athlete the inconvenience of the law where my lungs took in the smog-choked skyline. Except for wonder, I lose my breath with little trouble now. I travel cellar ways. And muse on Galapagos finches. How their evolution apart always began in the gridlock of space. In this state of millions, I dance in acid rain puddles and am still able to make myself scarce within the Hollywood shadows, where no one will pay you mind unless you do. |