Thursday, August 21, 2003

The asphalt.

I hiccup to my home, to my room, staggering in the yellow light. And I can only hope everything's gonna be alright.

Wednesday, August 13, 2003

What I remember now about O.J. and Nicole is the ice cream. There was a half-melted dish of ice cream in her apartment, hurriedly cast in an odd, inappropriate place like a bookshelf or mantel so as to soon be retrieved.

Hours later gloved forensic experts examined its degree of meltedness to deduce her approximate time of death.

Friday, August 01, 2003

In a cab on the way home, on the corner of 97th and Park, I had my headphones on and I was listening to an old Duke Ellington number as I watched a man peek into a garbage can. He bobbed a little, hesitated, retreated and reapproached as the band swung and syncopated in his shadow.

He found something he wanted and pried it out by fingertips. Then the clarinet played an ostinato and the light turned green.