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2003-08-17 Right around the reaches of my old hometown. Ohioness. I miss its oily drudgery and gray doldrums and work union rust. It makes sense. I'm ready to become a Clevelander living along the river that once was on fire. It's so easy to pretend that I'm living in East Germany or some other post-Soviet pitstop. Always an almost wall jumper. Or sometimes somewhere in the UK. Clumsy french musettes play faintly in the try of my fingers making mechanical what should sing. The automation of the two-step polka overrides. Gray, gray charades. |