in the biceps of trees. Toes at eye level, mostly men. But now they
all would kill themselves to be “famous”: Twitter-trending, hashtagged,
Instagrammed and graphed via Google’s analytics like the pulse line seen
on a hospital monitor. They want a celebrity synonymous to what Billboard
chart bullets signaled back when conks were still in style, not cornrows: and
still the quick and easy cliché of one bullet to a soft spot of the body, though
these days there’s a bit more flair, an adamant need to go out with a bang to
the second power, “showing out” for all the cell phone cameras, dead set on
becoming a world star. I’ve not seen but have heard of trains recently, or
train stations, I guess, somewhere in California; I think maybe in Oakland,
San Francisco—something like that. It happened just like that, they say,
quickly, like the train’s coming and leaving and leaving his brunette
body behind, hands clasped and yet reaching for each other as if to pray
but not quite touching properly. As far as I’m concerned, they’re all
playing dangerous games. They just don’t give a damn about their lives,
the whole heathen lot. Jesus Christ, I mean, they’re even drunk driving into
buckshot nowadays. They’re calling 911 when there’s no emergency to be
found, pulling pranks against tax dollars; they don’t call 911 knowing that a
little girl sleeps on a couch with a murder weapon in the cushions, guarding
it with her own body in illegality. I doubt I’ll visit Detroit anytime soon,
not even to catch nine innings at the house Cobb built, and he’s my favorite
player! And I don’t think I’ll ever get popping “Skittles” or whatever new
name they may be calling it now, knowing the overdose is coming. I won’t ever
get their trying to grab a gun if they’re not completely committed to shooting
themselves with it: I say spare the poor man all your hard work, you know?
Always passing the buck. Always taking the buck out of an honest man’s
hands. I can’t fathom absurdity such as stealing cigarillos only to empty
the paper to smoke another leaf that kills like tobacco from Carolina does.
I fail to see why a woman with a death wish would give her child to anyone
other than honorable officers of the law. There is no rhyme, no reason to it,
to anything they do, really. I’ll say this: if the heart is a fruit of blood, theirs
are spoiling strangely en masse, becoming something to be tossed away,
and Sam, you know better than anyone there’s no money in that. Not like
in the old days. Remember? When they did their jobs without a complaint?
