the mandolin player of brooklyn

the mandolin player of brooklyn nasrin khosrowshahi

so she sits here, stalling in her old alma mater, not knowing what to do. Thus, she finds herself in

front of the computer in the art school library, might as well pen another master piece. 300 pages

of fall, double-spaced, times new romanish, an account, a journal, something, something. Outta

art school, spring, summer, fall and winter. She is getting very fluent @ querying nyc agents,

when her epic is penned she could easily query 50 agents simultaneously. Someone will take her

up, someone will, someone should. After all, she manages to start most sentences with a

capitalized word, put a small dot @ the end of a sentence, what more do you need, what, what?

She usually writes everything in English, which is good, you know, sticking to the same

language throughout a text, that might help, infusing the text with an illusion of coherence. She

ponders, is it more lucrative to write in English or in Icelandic, what with foreign rights and

stuff? Well, at least she has a quasi-exotic name, you know, the other, the other. Then again, you

might not have sat thru endless reiterations of what passes as cultural theory these days, a

biologist does not really know what the term “the other” means. Well, neither does the author,

but she has a BFA, a freshly minted one, the problem is, of course, that most ppl don’t know

what a BFA is. The author scratches her head, she stares down at her ruby red fingertips, the

ones with MAC nailpolish. The author ponders, does everyone know what MAC is? Make-up

artistry corporation maybe, the author ponders, if she is writing 4 posterity. Will her writing be in

the pantheon of writing, does she have the “je ne sais quoi” of an Oscar Wilde, a Tolstoy. She

ponders, the only difference between her and Homer is gender and breathing. Yep, that must be

it must be it must be it. So, writing, huh. No more drawing 4 her, the world has lost an illustrious

illustrator. Has gained an illustrious writer. The world the world the world. Her writing is pure

genius, no more self deprecation, only boosting and bragging. The writer in fall. Typing and

typing and typing. Someone might shoo her away from this computer, she is not a student here,

1


not anymore, not and not. An alma matrix, alma materian, who makes up these quasi-latin

phrases? Who and who and who.

The author ponders, she will send this off to the agent in brooklyn, who practices the mandolin

or to the one who changed companies in September. To the one with the authoritarian voice, to

the one who used 2 be an editor and on Charlie Rose. To the ones who started their own

publishing company, full of social justice books 4 the white guilt crowd. She ponders, yep, that

should do it, throw around terms like white guilt, left and right and center, make sure that you

manage to insult everyone, ah, everyone. You are no Seinfeld, lady, not yet, not yet. Ah. She

types, types, slithered off-course, maybe sticking to one theme would be better, betta. Women

peruse the art mags, ah, ladies, don’t waste your time in art skool, artists, they don’t make

money, don’t, don’t. they have rewarding careers, but no money, none, zilch. The author

ponders, how much of an advance do expiring authors get? Ok, it is aspiring, but expiring seems

to be anything but a Freudian slip. She types, types, types, one twenty in the art skool, her back

to the ocean factory, September the thirteenth, ah, 13, the big 13. Author ponders, is this too

much for stream of consciousness-writing, to the edge of unconsciousness? Her typing sucks, so

does her writing, whiffs of Kerouac and Capote, she should stop to read up on the gossip-

columns of dead writers. She should pen monstrous epics in Azeri, why English, ah, why, why?.

She feels dislocated, diasporic, ah, a happy fish outta water, gasping 4 air, gasping 4 air. She

ponders, she should play up the “fish-outta-water” aspect, it would have a big market share.

Everyone can relate, everyone, everyone. We have to target everyone. Everyone is a potential

customer. She types, types.

Put this on scribd, it is not just a vanity press, she types and types and types. A day in her old

alma mater, words that splash onto the monitor, coherence, a tad, a tad. She longs for paint

2


brushes and black stick figures that march over white monitors, feels like crying, ten years down

the drain, ah, art school, art school. Confusion is so very palpable, she is outta words, outta

words.

- - -

an absentminded day in an absentminded life. She finally was able to save her file to the desktop,

she starts to type, hunched over, she will feed her words to the machine, while her body is

contorted, strangely. We don’t do that when we speak, the spoken word leaves our lips, relaxed,

happy, to be out there in the world. Writing is so very artificial, the dissemination of utterings

into reluctant black signs on white surface, anyhoo, typing time, typing time. Upstairs the

rumbling of the dryer, forcefully, she types, types, wishes for a different environment, where she

can study ppl’s expressions, where she has subject matter abound. Today, a Tuesday, a

September, a city somewhere on this planet. A typer, a writer. Words that do not what they

should. Words with minds of their own. Grammar and syntax, at the mercy of this keyboard. And

she types, types, types. Takes her laptop to the green couch, changes one physically awkward

position for another. But, hey, typing must go on, must go on, must go on. Downstairs her “and

amsterdam” files, her “nanomonth” files, her “artskool” files. Books half-written, half non-

written. Attempts at literary success, literary non-success, what is literature, anyways, anyways.

Existential questions, ever so slightly, fragmented thoughts, fragmented words. She types and

types and types. , page 4, this is her fall chapter, an account of a life, divided into seasons,

this better be good, better be good. Coherence would help, something ubiquitous like an outline

and what does ubiquitous really mean? Stream of consciousness, my butt, the author should find

a strong story arc, somewhere, somehow, she should wrap her words around dragon tattoed girls

and spidermen, she should reiterate archetypes of the modern, the myth of the modern. And she

3


types, types, types her days away. Her daily adventure of starbucks on 41st, later on a ricotta

muffin at café artigiano, but first, first, words, ah words. One day she will learn how to play the

mandolin, one day, one day. No reason, no reasons. The dryer, its second cycle, the author just

notices that it is the washer, ah, this is why her fact-based journalism stinks and teeters away.

She feels insanity merging with incoherence, the days of dementia are nearing, ah, so very much.

Senility, what is that. It is a woman in a red shirt on a green couch, typing away at her oversized

laptop, with ruby-red fingernails, on a rainy, ah so very dreary day in september, while fall

leaves get ready to rain down, to awash the streets of this city, she types and types and, ah, types

some more. Her words are reluctant, angst ridden, that is how it should be, paint dries up in

baskets, images are non-drawn, Daniel Richter, the art world is all yours. No more animations,

no more paintings, words are gripping her, laptops are seducing her, her visual arts degree is for

the birds, for the birds.

She sits up straight, she should tackle bigger issues, take the narrative from the meticulously

personal out into discussing strong meta narratives, she should write about pressing, pressing

issues. That is what pens are for, to fight against injustice, you cannot be nothing more than a

storyteller, a harpist on the canada line, singing for dimes, dancing for the pennies that are

bestowed upon her. Maybe, some time later in the day, she will make her way down to Granville

Island, where fringe festers forcefully, where the black clad lad tapdances on the beige wooden

board he hurled around on the bus. The author shreaks at the sudden noise of the mail in the

metal slit at the black wooden door, she notices, ever so softly that her words lack a certain tinge

of coherence, ah, all loose ends, all loose ends. Use more fuckin’ adverbs and adjectives, nouns,

pronouns, the right kinda syntax, yeah, that one, that one. She types, types,. Listens in to the

clicker-claccker of the keys, typing, ah, typing.

4


The page comes to an end, she has done her work 4 the day, this is what fuckin’ poets do, she

can now march forward into the mundane of her day.

- - -

In front of the telly, typing in the light of the laptop, friends on, well, the telly. She types, types,

ah, types her days away. Dryer upstairs, calling her, take the load out, put another load in. she

tries to type and watch tv, her brain does not really work that good, her words splash onto the

monitor, the September day here in vancouver walks over into the sun. She scratches her head,

her word creations are off, but, hey, that must be how writer days happen. Joey talking to Ross,

she tries to follow the storyline, it is funny, ah, and now, a state farm ad, now, a cheese burger

ad. This is what she writes about, one day, ah, one day, a story will develop out of this,

organically, one with a protagonist, an antagonist, one that adheres to the rules of narration,

religiously, one that has cliffhangers and valleys, one that flows eloquently, a good good text.

This is not it, not yet, not yet. This is just typing, not writing . That kind, that kind, that kind.

Rhythm, tone, style, she types, types, types against the angst of the artist who cannot write, can’t,

can’t. And the flow of the words moves along, the author still has some more minutes until two,

some more words, some more words. Some semicolons, some apostrophes. Typing and typing

and typing.

- - -

another day in the art school library, the printer spits out paper upon paper, September 15th it is,

she sits here, outside dreariness, the worst key board of them all in front of her, words splashing

onto the monitor, this better be good better be good. The author paid fourteen bucks for parking,

this is so insane so insane. Quick cost analysis, she certainly does not make fourteen bucks per

5


day with her writing. She should go out and sell her words, there are farmers markets around

town, ppl sell their harvest, why are there no writers markets? Not the kind where a shrill

marketwife sells her wares. The author ponders, the term marketwife does not exist in English,

but, hey, who cares, cares. Her writing is substandard anyways so it does not really matter.

Outside the ocean factory, inside a writer with her writers block. The bridge against the white

sky, her typing stalls, she will fill the pages , anyhoo, anyway.

So this is why artists jump off bridges, it is the inability to find the right phrase, the perfect note,

the eloquent line, it is the wrestling with demons, the triumph of the muse, that kind of stuff, the

too convoluted sentences that finally do yer in. the artist ponders, her writing is about, about, she

tries to perfect her elevator pitch, ah, my writing is about- stop, long pause. I write about…, nah,

maybe, “I write” is more than enough. I am a writer trained in visual arts, yah, that might cut it,

is en par somewhere with “I am a plumber trained in hairdressing”. You can’t train in art, for

god’s sake. She types types types. Words splashing onto the keyboard, she types, types, types.

Time to go downtown, downtown.

She shuts her eyes, envisions her answering, “well, Charlie, let me tell you”, fun 2 be on Charlie

Rose. It shows that you are intelligent after all. Who would have thought? And, once more, who

would have thought?

- - -

once more in vcc, the learning center, once more the ear phones musicing along, don’t get

caught in a bad hotel, music, rhythms, not too loud, her words have to be penned, silenter music

should be better, the sharp lines on the monitor next to her, dancing, outside in the lobby,

scaffold after scaffold, a red dressed woman and all her face-book pics, women in yellow and

6


green, walking by, studygroupers in the back, two afternoonish, author typing, typing, not very

full of herself, her queries are turned down, somewhere in nyc someone bursts her bubble,

substandard writing, seems to be the verdict, seems 2 be da consensus, konsensuss. She will

write anyways, trees fall in forests, or something, and something. Her words slush away, too soft,

too harsh, too mushy, that’s the way it is, the way it is. One day of these days she will make her

way downstairs, retrieve the “and amsterdam’ and the “nanomonth” files, she will come up and

start typing, typing, typing up the longhand stuff, but until then, she still will fill pages with 2010

stuff, fall stuff. Her writing deteriorates, just like her body deteriorates, old age, makes you write

worse, makes you write worse. Ah, negativity, negativity. She should start up an mfa program or

something, the luster of solidity, certain classes, at certain times, structure, modules, the like, the

like. And on to page seven, smush words into the keyboard, fast, fast. The math/science tutor

sign, hovering above, like always, like always. It is september sixteenth, already, already. She

ponders, how should she, how would she describe this. In one word. Text, journal, who made up

words like elevator pitch. She types and types and types. That is how it should be, that is how it

should be. Playing with words, until they flow onto the page effortlessly, like playing an

instrument, forcing letters into thin air, like drumming, fast and fast and faster. She pauses,

ponders, she will go up to the pastry place, it is too late for crème brulee, all the caramel

puddings are snatched up in an instant. And she types, types, types. Like playing the piano, her

neck turned downwards, very, so very weird and contorted, words and words and words. She

finished one page, which means, one more to go. The header got convoluted, she has to fix that,

she will, will, how tough can it be, can it be. Today, nothing but useless repetitions, today,

nothing but mechanistical pushing of keys, today the muse does not live here, not anymore, not

anymore. She can hear the scaffoldppl in the lobby, they are so lucky, their movements and

7


motions are meticulously choreographed, writers , painters, animators, they have 2 create as they

go, this better be good, better be good. Inspiration, transpiration begets it, well, good luck, good

luck. Something smells weird, toxic, she feels slightly sick, nausea so palpable, that’s how it is,

that s how it is. She types typo after typo, she will go back and fix this all, once it is finished,

that’s how it is, that’s how it is. English tutor sign, green and white, she ponders if she should

take a class here in order to have someone edit her ah so fascinatingish book. And she types, she

types, types her days away. Typing while listening in to the sound of hands non-clapping,

listening to her typing, to the talking of the study group, she types and types and types. These are

her days, weird and strange, but as long as she can make it to one of these typing places all over

town, life is good, somehow, somewhere. And she types, types. 2668 words, for the fall part of

“on canada line’, what kind of title is that, too, well, too blah. Or maybe good, good enough. She

types anyways, types her words forward, down to page 8. How tuf can it be, how and how and

how. She ponders, over fragmenting her sentences into oblivion, is that literature, well, is it, is it?

Who knows, who knows who knows, no one will publish this, someone will publish this.

Someone will read this. She will pay someone to read this. Seems to be the only way to garner

readership. So this is what art does to you, it makes you feel slushed up, annoyed, deathly, it is

fun though to tap away at a keyboard, makes her fell important, as if she has something to say,

something to say. And words, and words, and words. She constructs her non-narrative so very

carefully, while her back and her neck cramp away, she types, and she types, forcefully, to the

edge of page eight, this is enough, so very, very enough for today. Stop, save, spellcheck. Not

necessarily in that order.

- - -

8


at the computer, in the library, a so spectacular, so generic anylibrary, typing and typing, against

the futility of her writer-existence, struggling with her demons, penning something, ah,

something, devoid of melodrama, awash in pathos, with just the right kind of wordings, the right,

ah, so right kind of style, typing it is, typing it is 4 her. Syntax sucks, spelling sucks even more,

but she doesn’t care, she is here, freshly bathed, to do her day’s work, two pages, ten pages,

whatever it takes to force her amongst the tenessee williamses and the t.s. elliots of this world,

she has to conquer the literary world, and god only knows why and what for. There is no money

in this, no satisfaction, nothing, nothing, the only reward is the journey, or something like that,

something of that kind. Rarara- platitudes for starving artists, she should read up on those,

consolations of losers, of nobodies, that kind, that kind, and she types, types, types. The old and

stale adage about typing and writing, why does it even matter, what one pencil pusher says about

the other, she types and writes, slightly oblivious, slightly not. Her text doesn’t make sense, her

writing sucks, she will finish this up, finish this up, two pages each and every day, two pages,

two and two and two.

Sitting in a generic library, while feeling like barfing, that is not much fun, not much, not much.

Who is she to think that she can write, is each and every half-wit who knows how to type, a

writer, an author, a literary giant? How do writers differ from the creative geniuses who pen

grocery lists, how and why? Existential questions on a dreary september morning here in

vancouver, after a short stint on the canada line, a walk thru the rain down Dunsmuir, and she

types, types. Ponders if she should write more ‘bout vancitay, less about it, who is the target

audience, who, who, who? She dots her words with punctuation marks, she tries to teeter more

next to orthographical conventions, maybe her words can garner the interest of a nyc-agent,

maybe she will be finally published, maybe she will venture out on a book tour, the question

9


being is, of course, if that’s what she really wants. Does she, well, does she? Paint and black

marker, they cry, all her training as painter and animator, all of that, for the birds, for the birds.

Who in her right mind would change film and other visual stuff for books, in a country where no

one reads, to paraphrase Grisham. Why should she write, why does she write? A man in a

Harvard shirt talks to the librarian, why would anyone wear that? How is that Harvard shirt

different from her red and orange striped shirt, do real Harvard men wear Harvard shirts? Some

do, some don’t, author types, types, this is not the time to discuss stuff. She feels exhausted and

nauseated, all her thoughts start somewhere and end somewhere , and she does not cater to the

plot wishers of this world, and,and, and. Her sentences have no beginning and no end, is this

what is commonly referred to as rambling? Rambling, ah, rambling, rambling 4ever. And she

types, types, disillusioned, full of negativity, she has to get it out of her system, so that she can

face the world, face the world. She has to fuck-up this text, each and every day, hurl her insults

into cyberspace, it is better than strangling oneself, this finger gymnastic at the type-writer, the

texts that result out of it, ah, she types and types and types some more. Some kinda art, some

kinda book, some kinda piece of shit. Her words, her words, her words. Reluctant, forceful, that

kinda stuff, that kind of stuff. Full of pauses, cadences, that kinda stuff, stuff. Page ten it is, not

bad, not bad.

Sometime in september, sometime, somewhere. Harvard man and librarian still talking, both

equally ugly, beauty does not exist here, in this place of books and intellect. Author types, types.

Good words, bad words, mediocre words. Solemn words, singsang of the day, the blue info desk

sign hanging from the ceiling, the AC deafening, nausea palpable, she’d better stop better stop,

before insanity sets in, before, before. Not quiet two pages yet, not yet, not yet. The music of her

words, the headache in her forehead, the day of a writer, so blah, so very very blah.

10


- - -

she is now in langara, in the library, outside rain reluctant, it looks as if the clouds will spit any

second, but they don’t, so it’s pretty weird, she types and types and types. She wishes she had

classes, something to keep her occupied, the only thing she does these days is writing and

practicing for her role in the community theater next door, actually technically it is a role in a

play in the senior center. She ponders, ponders, her writing should go somewhere, better sooner

than later, her words are not good enough, apparently, apparently. She ponders, ponders, how

come she got an A in every text she ever wrote, how come she is not able to sell these her words,

something must be wrong, something, ah, something. Maybe she used less “ahs” and “ohs” in

her school work, that must be it must be it must be it. Maybe she put commas in deserving

comma places, maybe she was less than an artist, more than an artist. Maybe her stuff made more

sense, who knows, who knows, and once more, who knows. Typing, typing, such an utterly

redundant task, the day crawls forward, blue in the sky, behind white and grey. Woman talks in

the back, loud, forceful, aggressive, ah, agressively. Author ponders, this is not the correct

description, how can she possibly hurl descriptions at reality, how, how? And she types, ah,

types, ah, types. She ponders, she should take a writing class, ah, why not, something in

continuing ed, but she is not quite sure if she has what it takes to weather the sharp crits, she

would only crumble, will only crumble, she cannot handle criticism gracefully. Who can who

can who can? Ah and ah and ah. And ah.

Upstairs, slits of white in the grey ceiling, the author is not quite sure if she wants to still keep on

feeding her words to the hungry machine here, maybe she should just call it a day, take the

canada line down to waterfront, change for the expo line, go to commercial , get a small sicilian

cannoli for two bucks at the Italian bakery, that is basically overpriced, but good, and then have a

11


tea, the author ponders, if it is just the long trek that makes the pastry in that bakery desirable.

The long trek, the steep price. She should stick to writing, typing, writing away, she should

tackle important issues, she should gather the dust bunnies at home, in a pile, she should do this,

that, the other. Always the other, always the other. The author ponders, will her nonsensical

writing stand up, will it outdo or will it be outdone. Hmm. Depends on the quality of other words

typed at this very time, depends on the intellect of the reader, depends, depends, depends.

Everything is relative everything is relative. And she types, types, types, this is what she does,

nausea is so very near, there are no stories left to tell, none and none and none. But she said that

already. Woman in red sitting next to her, man in cartoonish t-shirt at the other computerseat.

Author types, types, types. Page, who knows what, she types and types, all thru insanity, fast and

fast and faster. Two twenty-one, somewhere in fall, words splashing, murmur of ppl, words and

words and words. One day she will query this, substract all of this into one word, she ponders if

substract is the right term, ah, who cares, who cares, who cares. She could call this “diary”,

“journal”, “account”. There must be better words to describe this her text, fascinating treatise, or

something or something. Amazing novel, amazing non-novel, life in words, something, ah,

something. She is losing it, ever so slightly, ever so slightly. There goes her brain, not working,

non-working. Splints of humour in the text, who would write her days away, all thru spring and

summer and fall of two thousand and ten. And she types and types and types. Types, types and

types some more. End of page 12, so very, very, very near.

- - -

In the art school library, typing pretty fast, against the sleepiness of a Saturday afternoon,

12


her words slightly skewed, the author tries to smush as many words into the machine as she

possibly can. She feels kind of isolated, especially now that all these people are around her,

giggling ones, serious ones, the 3-D class discussing form in front of all the art mags on the rack,

the author just attended a reading, which was weirdly divided, one author was extremely good,

the other extremely bad, so it seemed, so it seemed. But readings are good, whatever is read, and

the small lindt chocolates were really good, and, hey that’s all that counts, all that counts. Who

cares about the art, the food is what counts. Especially at openings, readings, finissages,

whatever. The author types, clicker-clackering against the printer that hums happily. The person

next to her draws a robot, huh, there is hope 4 humanity. And she types, and she types. granville

island slowly, the market is still open, brimming with tourists, the author will go there, but first

some more words, fed to the beast, fed to the beast. She feels so very uninspired, dragging her

words along, trying to hold on to fleeting thoughts that leave her, running away, running away.

Writing begets writing, whatever that means, whatever that means, poetry will evolve, silently,

solemnly, quality will, should march stoically into quantity. She types and types and types. Her

words, her words, so very, very off, never, ever good enough. These are her days, typing away,

wishing for perfection, for glimpses of eloquence, of elegance. She types and types and types.

Her words, her words. As if she didn’t say that already. She pauses, ponders, if she should leave

this computer station, if she should sit facing the ocean factory, she interrupts her thoughts, she

stares into thin air, she wrestles with the language, and the language wrestles back, wrestles her

down, defeats her, leaves her so very, very void of words, of words. The black clad lad next to

her coughs, not once , but twice, there is music in the back, on a cell phone, on a computer.

Librarians talk, a student with pink ear phones, to her right, to her right. A September afternoon

in the art school, silence before closing, she types away, types away.

13


And now we are on top of page fourteen, the author talked too much, preferred conversing with a

colleague to penning her master piece, master pieces have to wait, should wait. 4:32, her words

splash onto the monitor, roaring, reluctantly, something like that, something like that. You are no

poet, you’ll never be, no painter, no animator, just a pusher-down of keys, whatever that is,

whatever that is. A word-worker or something, not even a smith, a writer wrestling with words,

with words. Until they start to blur, until they start to take shape, until they sing, ever so

reluctantly, still ever so poetically. Ah, whatever that means, whatever that means. She should

apologize for poeting her days away, clunkering the words together, disjointedly, but somehow,

somewhere she feels a strange contentness, today the language flows effortlessly, who knows

why, who knows, and she types, types, types. Time to get some pink salmon candy from the

market, time to walk by false creek, time to laugh at seagulls, time to feel the reluctant sea

breeze, time to end this, wordcount this, leave this. The words have to hover along, in cyberspace

maybe, in this computer on granville island, maybe, on a piece of paper, maybe.

- - -

Pretty fast sentences, on a Monday morning, before work, before taking the Canada line

downtown, before the long trek thru rain and all those bodies on the train, she quivers, the way

she mentions bodies, too reminiscent of body bags, decay, the like, anyhoo, the poet, the painter,

the animator, the reluctant, so very reluctant scribe in the little room, typing and typing and

typing. She sits here contorted, trying to feed her words to the machine, trying to pin down

eloquence, while words rush away, leave her grip, she will never nail it, never ever, no one can,

no one can, the futility of creativity, omnipresent, ah, omnipresent. We have the outline, the

proposal, the blueprint, somewhere, somewhere, we just follow orders, follow orders. Her words

14


today, so very very substandard. But she writes and types, this is what she does, what she does,

one day someone will pay to read her words. And if not, she tried and tried and tried, to pen the

perfect story arc, to nail the story, to put words to paper, that kinda stuff, that kind of stuff. It is

getting late, she has to take the bus down to Granville island, that better be good, better be good.

Today, her words, so very convoluted, not following the rules, she should try her hands at clear

narratives, perfect stories, ah, perfect, so very perfect. She scratches her head, is this all, nothing

but existential whining, that is no subject matter, the struggle of the artist, who cares, who cares,

who cares.

Vancouver in rain, September mourning, September morning. And she types and types and

types. Feeling that she has genius, knowing that her dribble sucks. Outside, the reluctant blue of

a fresher morning, upstairs, the rumbling of pipes and insulations in the woodwork. Once there

was a squirrel in the wall, it took five days of pestcontrolppl efforts to get it out, alive that is.

She types, types, types. The words fast, so many, so many. Loads of laundry waiting solemnly,

silently in the blue basket with the holes that disintegrate, anyhoo, she types, types. Against this

rainy, drizzly morning, as fast as she can, as fast as she possibly can. Another story, of nothing

new, nihilism 4 ever. Who cares who cares who cares.

At six twenty in starbucks on arbutus, two taxi cabs, one blue, one white checkered, checkered

with black, two writers, two coffee ppl. The drizzle of a vancouver morning, awaiting the day,

awaiting the week. The lowly writer at her laptop, with words that don’t rhyme, don’t make

sense, that is how it is, that is how it is. A construction worker with words, trying to smush all

these words that never ever fall into place. At least a bricklayer has solid bricks, non-malleable,

whereas words run away to wherever they feel like, like sand, like clay, so tough and difficult,

and she types, types, types. Two pages, not yet, not yet, not yet. Her words today, screaming for

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rework, today, only scribbles, only, only. She is aghast at her lack of eloquence, the clumsiness

of her lingo, must be the rain, must be the constant drizzle onto this city, must be and must be

and must be. Poetic this is not, accurate this is not.

- - -

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the mandolin player of brooklyn

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