The Hunt
Once upon a time in the City of Angels, a Kafkaesque character named R.K. was motoring along at a top rate of speed… zipping through the urban jungle of Sinclairian madness. When like a sudden nuclear flash, a group of soldiers in a squad car with the LAPD emblem on the door appeared; they were pointing, signaling with their stubby fingers for him to pull over. R.K. was not certain of their intentions; seeing that it was quite dark outside, he just sped away. That impulsive act only spurred, fueled the soldiers seething desire for the kill. R.K. held the pedal against the metal, as the car shot through the city street like a jackrabbit racing ahead of a coyote. But to no avail, because like a pack of wolves chasing their prey… they got stronger as the aromatic smell of blood filled their nostrils. R.K. slowed. Finally, R.K. and his friends were surrounded like a bunch of pioneers cowering (see R.K. was not alone) in their covered wagons; while hostile Indians circle them like one might see in a good old John Wayne B movie.
“Get out of the car, Mr. Fox!,” yelled the soldier in charge.
The Avenue,
or the Day Marcia Williams was Killed
a stray bullet smashing a window
like a fallen chandelier shattering
against a marble floor: a spray of hair
sweeping across an un-attended steering
wheel
like a peacock’s feathers… children
staggering
out of now unfamiliar doors; racing
into the mist of terror-stricken faces flanking an
ever restive Avenue.
ORWELLIAN YEARS I
In the Orwellian years…
People were like ancient Birds
Lightning through earthly, concrete
Skies of disinformation. Yes, mentally,
They were like Kiwis in physique…
vestiges of evolution.
BANISHMENT
I dreamt
last night
that Man
cast McCarthy
out of the Garden of Democracy.
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