like figures in the distance
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4:09 and I’m on the 7th floor of the tallest building on this stretch of Wilshire, overlooking a tar-park filled with imperiled plaster animals. From the nearest window you can see the air is thick with smoke, most likely from fires extinguished; the very sign of a problem solved now plagues the city-proper. Three hours ago I had a hot dog on the patio at the modern art museum. I listened to the Mountain Goats and watched the ash fog settle over the E! building, everyone near me focused on a street magician's cup game. He’s a homeless guy. They’re tourists. Made for each other, yeah? Each imposing foreign needs on annoyed strangers. I think about Ireland, about my upcoming weekend of turning a bad book into a good movie. I think about quiet. 4:09 and I’m still thinking these things when my new stack of obits arrives. 10 this week, 10 deaths to note and file, marshaled beyond by the top notice, the first to pass: Oopsy the Clown. Oopsy. My silent wish for each notice is that life was long and lived now, but before I mark this one, I am reassured: life can be nothing but long in a red nose and face paint. Only 9 wishes today. And then I’m done.
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