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Utopian Turtletop. Monsieur Croche's Bête Noire. Contact: turtletop [at] hotmail [dot] com
Friday, October 22, 2004
NOCTURNE
Late, late at night, the skies hunker down close, making the houses and trees and cars smaller.
Woke up at 2 this morning to go count homeless people sleeping outside with the Coalition for the Homeless. While I was putting on my shoes I listened to Mieczyslaw Horszowski's rendition of Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat. So, so tender and sweetbitter melancholy.
Someone in a sleeping bag out in the wide open park near the mouth of I-90. Chopin's Nocturne echoing in my mind's ear, seeing someone sleep is so tender and intimate, and the crushing indifference of go-go America to our internal economic exiles. Two people up late talking in their sleeping bags under the I-90 bridge. A man with a backpack walking manically around, flapping his arms, hoping for lift-off. Something, something about bluebirds flying, flying beyond the rainbow. Why can't I?
Home again Finnegan, time for bed and up again soon.
Late, late at night, the skies hunker down close, making the houses and trees and cars smaller.
Woke up at 2 this morning to go count homeless people sleeping outside with the Coalition for the Homeless. While I was putting on my shoes I listened to Mieczyslaw Horszowski's rendition of Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat. So, so tender and sweetbitter melancholy.
Someone in a sleeping bag out in the wide open park near the mouth of I-90. Chopin's Nocturne echoing in my mind's ear, seeing someone sleep is so tender and intimate, and the crushing indifference of go-go America to our internal economic exiles. Two people up late talking in their sleeping bags under the I-90 bridge. A man with a backpack walking manically around, flapping his arms, hoping for lift-off. Something, something about bluebirds flying, flying beyond the rainbow. Why can't I?
Home again Finnegan, time for bed and up again soon.
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