Friday, March 02, 2007

Nana Mossoro

Night fell on the shamble leg man’s head. He felt the pressure building up in his ears, the stirrups hardening, calcium pressing in on his ear drum. There was much in the world he didn’t want to hear, like bawling children or old people complaining. He cared little for symphonies and choral arrangements, detested opera and jazz, flugelhorns or anything played on a trombone or alto-sax. He hated Edith Piaf and Nana Mossoro, and men who used pocket combs and hair salves. An elm tree grew behind the Waymart. An oak tree grew beside the apothecary. Three bushes grew next to the grocers. A hedge grew along side the aqueduct. A blue spruce flourished in front of the post office. The shamble leg man counted the change in his pocket, three dimes, two nickels, seven pennies and a fifty cent piece his grandfather had given to him when he was twelve.

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz

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