Tuesday, January 29, 2008


It's the fist of a drunken Bostonian in New York who runs into a taxi cab right outside of Yankee Stadium after the Red Sox escape with a win late in the game; a dissappointer, a comeback, a diss. But after slamming his clenched fist--in defense--on the passing vehicle's rear quarter panel, he bounces off the cab and rolls, gallops, stumbles down the street underneath the old 1920's girders with their many, steel-eye bolts covered in decades old thick, black exhaust to the local bah only to be booed and shooed away to his hotel in Manhattan. He gets up, hungover, he doesn't know how to get out of the city except by boat or plane and can afford neither. Red, drunken-face is gone now, and is greeted by grey, drowning-face with lines. He slumbers out of bed, still fully-clothed and mealy-mouthed. His teeth wear sweaters, as slime mocks his gaping yawn, attempting as a weak glue to keep his mouth shut, much like the Yankees fans the night before. The last of his cash foully spent on a cabi's best night ever: take a man all the way from the Bronx to the City. Ah, "That'll be a hundred bucks, mistah." Deadpan face, he pays. Now hungry in the bright, painful morning light, it's 1973. There are no credit cards for breakfast or a way home. He stares blankly in the room: wild, greasy hair, unkempt, slept-in clothes, he stands silent like a funeral, with empty pockets, an angry stomach, and mouth full of grime.

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