Maybe it was because I woke to the book jacket of And the Hippos Were Boiled In Their Tanks (Burroughs and Kerouac) as I put on my work clothes in the dark, quiet living room, but things began to seem creepy. Stalled in traffic on the Van Wyck Expressway I thought I saw a mastodon tooth dangling from the rear view of the Honda in front of me. Taking the curves of the Jackie Robinson through the vast cemetery my mind grew fixated on the decayed bodies not far from the turf above, laid end to end, and their long wavy hair. Walking to the bodega near Troy Avenue in Brooklyn I saw alleyways, spooky corridors with dusty garages housing body parts, and not auto body parts. The sky grimaced, locusts were thick with thorns, billy goat was the fare of the day and roots swam like infant sharks in the soil of the trench.
Next to the work site a ghost girl sat cross legged, book on her lap, sweet behind the rosebuds. The spray paint markings on the sidewalk signified a runic, witchy code rather than electricity and gas lines. And then suddenly I met Andrea, a nurse, who had been married for 47 years. She had ordered her lamp specially. For this moment I think she is all light in the world. Surely she will protect us from harm.
One response to “And the Hippos Were Boiled In Their Tanks”
I love everything about this. Thank you. T. p.s. you drove by the Drazan plot on Jackie.