my favorite problem
semi's own the roads and issue tardy slip to surrounding automobiles. I watched yesterday afternoon as a young black man stood rejected, unable to sell large children books to owners of an adult book store. he waited to cross the street maybe to steal a couple dollars from lonely bank tellers drowning in loaned money.
there are changes to be be made, everyday.
remember our first walk we talked in nervous noises in between uncomfortable silences, look, now, we cross blocks, grab flowers from trees that dont obey the lines of property and we talk talk talk.
I have this strange problem, well it may not be a problem, but it causes minor strain, when I drift off in mid-sentence, or stare for long periods of time directly at a person(I've combated that complication by allowing myself to look away, then return to staring, then look away, I do this continually until I feel uncomfortable, or until Esme snaps me back to reality). It's been ever constant as of late and it doesn't seems to be letting down. It's the need to know everyone's story.
This weekend I went to the Eastern Market to get plants for our garden, and it was attacking me everywhere, this man he was african and had a large paper chef's hat on, that matched his white apron that hid his pants and flowed like a nightgown. He was behind a grill serving BBQ chicken in pita wraps. Every once and awhile a man next to him, wearing the same grabs, would shout while lifting his spatula from the grill exclaiming confidently that, " his wraps are hot and delicIous." The African fellow said nothing remained quiet the whole time, and when his partner would shout he would expose his teeth that would shine off his dark skin. I would just sit and stare, and ask myself, why is he there? Is he going to school to become a chef? Is this an odd job that he uses to save money to send home to his family in Africa? Is he even from Africa(first generation of course)? If so why did he come to Michigan? I want to know his story. I want to sit down and hear his words, and often if I can't I create a story, because I have such a need to know.
Another time I passed by this car parked on the side of the road, there were no hazards, so there was nothing that told you what the problem was. Inside the car was a young man, maybe thirteen moving his hands up and down, like a pair of wipers cleaning the window. He did this while staring off into a field. The questions flew from my head again with no answers, and they keep coming. Story after story, question after question, until I get into an accident, or am shaken awake.
there are changes to be be made, everyday.
remember our first walk we talked in nervous noises in between uncomfortable silences, look, now, we cross blocks, grab flowers from trees that dont obey the lines of property and we talk talk talk.
I have this strange problem, well it may not be a problem, but it causes minor strain, when I drift off in mid-sentence, or stare for long periods of time directly at a person(I've combated that complication by allowing myself to look away, then return to staring, then look away, I do this continually until I feel uncomfortable, or until Esme snaps me back to reality). It's been ever constant as of late and it doesn't seems to be letting down. It's the need to know everyone's story.
This weekend I went to the Eastern Market to get plants for our garden, and it was attacking me everywhere, this man he was african and had a large paper chef's hat on, that matched his white apron that hid his pants and flowed like a nightgown. He was behind a grill serving BBQ chicken in pita wraps. Every once and awhile a man next to him, wearing the same grabs, would shout while lifting his spatula from the grill exclaiming confidently that, " his wraps are hot and delicIous." The African fellow said nothing remained quiet the whole time, and when his partner would shout he would expose his teeth that would shine off his dark skin. I would just sit and stare, and ask myself, why is he there? Is he going to school to become a chef? Is this an odd job that he uses to save money to send home to his family in Africa? Is he even from Africa(first generation of course)? If so why did he come to Michigan? I want to know his story. I want to sit down and hear his words, and often if I can't I create a story, because I have such a need to know.
Another time I passed by this car parked on the side of the road, there were no hazards, so there was nothing that told you what the problem was. Inside the car was a young man, maybe thirteen moving his hands up and down, like a pair of wipers cleaning the window. He did this while staring off into a field. The questions flew from my head again with no answers, and they keep coming. Story after story, question after question, until I get into an accident, or am shaken awake.