Imagination of Dirt

On a breezy fall afternoon, from the sidewalk, a glance at the park interior, a woman sagging naked scrubs herself with soil, grass, leaves in the shade of an oak. The confused appears as a blotchy black and white reproduction of Boticelli's Birth of Venus in a scribbled 1950s high school textbook.

The grape tomato worm ricy grit tasteless on the tongue stuffed down to gurgling belly, gums laced with black goop, the condition of Pica, the condition of Rebeca in Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude palpitates our Freudian pulmonary artery--the maniacal fist feeding of dirt, the drive toward dark essence, the intestinal brick-making lust, the nourishment of decomposition and death, the lowly exaltedness of bourgeois pretensions.

This residue of unexpressed sickness expresses itself in the rumbling blast of highrise apartments in the "Noho shopping cArts District". The MTA recently approved a billion dollar office-housing-retail tower near the Noho red line station as part of our Mayor's dream of bringing the New York subway lifestyle to rubber boinking buggyville.

But a study by the LA Times shows previous attempts to link housing to rail stops in Hollywood, Downtown and Pasadena simply increased congestion since residents continue to drive.

Blind sticking smudged fingers down throats, pushing yuck to the yuppies, inters the clarity of solving planned foolery.

Why not simply require the new housing only be rented to people without automobiles, saving money on constructing needless parking structures and reducing traffic snarls?

Because people without cars are also the city's poor, and to build housing for poor people cuts deep with the anxiety of failed romantics.

Chanson d'automne

Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l'automne
Blessent mon coeur
D'une langueur
Monotone.

Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l'heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure

Et je m'en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m'emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.

--Paul Verlaine