11 September 2008. Gray gray skies. Seven years. Changing room at the Martin Luther King pool, just after eight. A voice on the radio, coughing between phrases--Larry Bensky--sense of unease. The hyper-real announcements--facts?--one after the next, beamed in from Washington, New York. Unfathomable...
Reading about a baby goat. Cabrito chico. Open volume held in both hands, before a group of school children, vaguely attentive. White tufts of fur--or were they gray--tucked behind each ear, or under the chin--a farm animal story--as if there were animals, as if there were farms...
More, miles of steel cable, girder and joist, raised up after Harte Crane, intent and mindless--mindless in the classic sense, mindless like Babel, like Cheops--more an assertion than an idea...
The two men in the tango room, pibes in perfect suits--city garb--their confidence and slicked-back hair--gomina--leaning towards each other, un desafío, a challenge--all before the first beat...
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