Genesis of Fiction

Edge or SODO

The scene that sets the scene is here on First, at Spring not Lenora, where a dark column of a room touches the street in the form of a window.

When I say street I mean a place where walking people shift by, working and unemployed looking for lunch or a coffee, space to schmooze, to pretend being high off drugless beer, sugared electrolytes or milked-down decaf.

Or artists between paid hours, fake sophisticates, inventing tears to go with far-off situations, scavenging the sections of other cities’ newspapers and taking notes in the form of verse in European languages,

examining words like carport, slipstream, labor, facilitate–which would be to make things easier, but now means to make something happen, so maybe nothing happens anymore unless it’s easy; or labor,

labor may be the only hard thing left, (god I wish I had a job, or were pregnant), and

slipstream, is that what’s ahead of or what’s behind a jet? Carport, evoking the car as a boat, and the vecindario of grass and the slowness of suburban life a harbor, and traffic a hardened route of sea, a lostness between actual locations that stretches into a metaphor of open death and pale beauty.


The scene that sets the scene is a talk on terremotos between a woman of sixty-four and a man of thirty, waiting for different buses, wistfully mentioning Chile, each deciding that if they had to go now

it wouldn’t be an empty life behind them, or a bad way to die; like dying at sea, except you fall into a cracked street (the kind you use for cars) or sink beneath the collapsing waves of buildings. And they go their ways, each a little late.

Stranded in South Park

A kindly woman walks her dog, or better said a thin grey beast with chips all over his shoulders, saliva streaming through his rapid exhalations. A man with ginger-tea hands is picking wrappers and tissues off the side of the sidewalk,

and the woman’s dog yaps to him violently–what starts happening is the woman slaps her dog across the face, slaps him again and again, looks at the man with her tender eyes of soft apology and then goes back to smacking and pummeling

her poor-sassy-misbehaved greyhound like some kinda evil cop. The man, now ashamed of his garbage bag, winds it around his fist and walks off in the direction of a smoke shop, hanging head and cursing himself with silence, seeming

strangely neither angry nor afraid. § And the scene who sets scenes is biting his lip and wondering about a trip toward Taos. Halfway through a future chapter of his budding magnum opus, he compulsively fidgets a phone out of pocket

and dials his mother’s numbers nonchalantly, talks with her a full hour about a
three-bean Mexican salad…


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