Settlement

France

I haven’t watched television in five years. Now it’s on all the time. 

There are many commercials. Like for money and how to get it. People singing to get money. People singing on busses to get money.

Go to college. Be somebody. Be a dental hygienist. The world is yours.

There is a commercial about a flash mob that is actually a commercial for cellular phone service. 

Grand Central Station. A man watches the clock.

When the second hand strikes twelve he strips off his trenchcoat and begins to dance, muscles taut, eyes closed. Rapturous.

He dances well, but he is wrong. The time for flash mobbing has been moved forward one half hour. Because he has a slow wireless data plan the man did not receive the message in time. 

He is dancing alone. Other people in trench coats watch sadly. 

Dismay. Disappointment. He has ruined the surprise. A negro shakes his head. 

Later I saw two hills of red mulch next to an Escalade, several houses wrapped in Puerto Rican parachutes.

It was explained to me that the parachutes were to prevent contamination. The spread of infestation. To keep people away.

We drove north in the Mazda. There was a party in the street. 

Women with ass implants. An old man with a cane posing for a picture next to a Lamborghini painted with energy drink glyphs. A group of stoned hair stylists discussed where to eat salad. 

I go to bed and wake up again.

There is a second sun coming. A negative sun. A woman told me this. 

The earth washed in light. 

The man at Grand Central, his trenchcoat crumpled at his feet, eyes closed, hands waving to holy heaven.

Echolalia purblind. 

For a few seconds he is happy, lost in joy.

Before he gets the message telling him he is wrong, the man is happy.