Go out into the world with no backpacks, no authorization passes, and in some drunken move that wouldn’t ordinarily make sense, make a fucking run for it.

At least not in the sun, after it warmed the cold grass and gave it a smell that only seems to happen in the morning – after salesman and day laborers started to make their way out of front doors and walk down Koreatown sidewalks, where small rodents and sometimes people seem to be rotting along the way, like a small plague swept through the neighborhood, and fed on us last night.

Run past worker trucks, cheap multi-passanger family vehicles, past fruit stand workers who will cut you fresh fruit and pour it into a bag seasoned with chili powder, where it feels like you’ve somehow found a secret way to wet your organs, with every vitamin available, all at once.

Run past someone in an alley fucking his girlfriend. Past Carlos and his truck. Past Ernesto the registered sex offender holding a can of beer. There’s no factory nearby. No sign of Whitman’s industrial vision. Of a thing bulging in iron. Of it bulging from the woods. Of it leaping out in a fantastic sight of new man, shaking the land with both fists to the ground, thigh muscles firmly ready to launch. Mouth dripping. Off collar. On top. Waiting for nothing.


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