the elderly man comes walking down this street, his street, and seats himself at a cafe table outside hoping to find a potential target for his poetry. he sets down his yellow bags brimming with his children; words conceived, carried, and birthed. an intellectual, a scholar, a schizophrenic, a maniac running everything over with his fingers, leaving fingerprints textile from a poet's grime after having touched the world. harmless to passer-bys, malignant and dangerous to the lone individual drinking her coffee, smoking her cigarettes, and writing at a distant cafe table set apart from the rest. she is a target for so much more. for more than what's: conceivable, fathomable, understandable and tolerable. she is: violated, offended, persued, agressed and persisted; a doe in headlights snared in a cruel hunter's trap. infinite ways of escape, none taken. stagnant, frozen, life momentarily on pause. suspended in self. still-born. and for a time, she really was dead to the world, asphyxiated by such an ambilical cord in hope and daresay, prayer. life drawn from her and, she, rendered pale in cold, rendered in blue. it was painless after the initial shock, numb as she witnessed the breath drawn from her, coiling itself into its noose. she was in the gallows, waiting for someone to pull the chair out from beneath her. counting to three. one, two...
throwing : stones
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