tall white guy

"fuck them bitches" he said.

this man of constant sorrow and perpetual anxiety said again, "fuck them bitches"  he was sitting at a bus stop next to a woman wearing a powdered wig, like a british barrister.  the man was reading Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, Letter Number 8.  he was facing a great challenge and thus feeling sad.  he did not like the exposure, exposure to the winds of change, hard driving winds blowing in currents of the forlorn and the gloom.  he felt the gloom in the winds of change and had to sit with one hand clutching the modern, green, bus stop seat with its rounded trapezoidal holes.  with his right hand he clutched the bottom of the metal seat, and with the left hand he held the book, the tangible book, with pages.  he used his thumb and ring finger to spread the pages open and his pointer and middle fingers to support the back of the book.  in this way he held and read the book.

"fuck them bitches"

the woman looked at him and assumed things.  she wore the wig out of conscience.  she felt like a more moral person with the powdered wig, with its curlets dropping down around her neck.  she felt more like a bird this way.  she associated birds with greater moral clarity "even though the hawk swoops down and tears the throat out of the mouse".

they both heard the buzzing at the same time and turned their heads to the left.  coming towards them about a block away (it had just turned right onto Van Ness) was a fly.  the fly was at least three feet long and starch white with bulging black eyes.  its wings, and there seemed to be hundreds of wings all flapping in psychotic synchronicity, were dark green moving into black.  they glimmered just a bit.  what beautiful contrast, this black on white.

the woman, who did not like bugs, was paralyzed by the fear.  she wanted so badly to move from her seat at the bus stop, but the shock was too great, and the man, soft and forlorn, just squeezed his butt cheeks together.  he could move, but only in a reverse bowel movement, muscles that in this situation aided nothing.  maybe running home from school, 6 years old, shit struggling to come out into the world, these muscles would have helped.  but in this instance, their clenching, the great power of their clenching did nothing.

"fuck, fuck, fuck" said the man. the book dropped, Rilke in super slow motion, the dragons and princesses from the text projected out into plain view; the man now both hands clutching bus stop seat.

the freakish white fly continued toward them, each foot closer producing exponentially greater anxiety in both the wigged woman and the bowel man.  excruciatingly closer and closer it flew.  the flapping, more like lightening, each unique downward propulsion a spear into the heart of anxiety, man and woman.  great distances imagined, deserts of miles and miles, this fiend of a fly was coming for their hearts, it would eat their hearts and fuck them in the in the place they both craved and feared.  what coincidence! what charm! eating and fucking, eating and fucking, gizzards and rectums rescued by the gorgeous giant winged creature.  a horse of a fly.

and it flew right by, tipping its cap. kept on going down the street.  one block further and then left on Turk probably to a bar for a drink.

a great deal of time passed and no bus arrived.  finally, the man said "fuck them bitches"

"yes, fuck them bitches"

fin

with all kinds of love,
Anthony