Capitan Hook, cyborg.
Okay, now replace the arm with a plastic lever, the head with a child's fist, the shoulders
with the rest of the child, the clothing with its clothing, and stilts maybe. Now you've got
a kid digging baseballs from the gutter with a mechanized hook.
That's what you've got.
It means something not to touch the earth.
All the pictures in the house: excuses; ways not to get next to someone
else; ways to feel the ground through banana leaves, through cinder blocks,
through my own rushed blood and striations of skin.
On every wall: one with my mother wearing white gloves from the middle
of this century, counting the pulse of a stranger to a pocket-watch; another where
a cousin skis over water into a tower of barrels. Two pictures also, one coming
down a flight of some institutional stairs, one up, unable to feel the hallway
through the calloused heel.
These are dark days; these are days clouded with good, overwrought
intentions. Hands stacked one-over-the-other on baseball bats. Bicycles welded