the sun rises over the girl's park bench which is her
wake-up call and she sits up and stretches still
tired and wants to go back to sleep but she
resists the urge and sets up her paints and gets
ready for another day of cruel happy sunlight and
birds singing cheerfully. how naturalistic the earth doesn't
give a damn about her. she could be shot down by
gunpoint and the world would go on happily and
the birds would continue to sing so annoyingly
blithe. if anything should be shot it should
be those goddamn birds making all that stupid noise.
poised in position trying to concentrate and crouching
over the easel while others look over her shoulder to
watch her in mock fascination, a man flings a
quarter at her, says that she's a pretty mother fucker and
she can keep the quarter if she goes to his place and
gives him head. but she doesn't seem to hear him
or the others standing around her. she doesn't seem to
feel their eyes burning into her skin.
the sun crawls continually through the sky swimming
in the cotton ball clouds until it finally hangs directly
below the girl's park bench and she can feel that
goddamn scorching star cooking her dull ebony hair
and roasting her pale sullied face. she knows that's
her cue so she puts away her paints and looks
inside her mug to see how much money she's
made thus far and if it's enough to get something to eat.
the jovial man smiles pleasantly at her. let me
guess what you want. a hot dog with everything, extra
mustard. the girl says nothing. she hands him the
change from her morning's work. she watches him
work at her hot dog with expertise and for once she
seems a little at ease with this hot dog vendor, the
closest thing she's known to a friend. for years she's
come to him and the same thing always happens. he's
memorized what she likes on her hot dog. he always
tries to make conversation and it never works. the
vendor wonders when was the last time she's spoken to
anyone and if she'll ever speak at least once to
someone before she dies. but the girl can never die nor
can she live. she's destined to spend eternity on that park
bench painting and ignoring the cruel glares, the rude
perverse comments, the tittering gossips who giggle and
gayfully stab her with their cheery voices and slighting words.
the sun climbs down and falls into the hills and hides
there from the moon, waiting for its descent so it may
climb back into the sky and return swimming in the
cotton ball clouds. meanwhile the girl puts her
paints away, sighs a little, grasps onto the box which
holds her paint set and has beautiful nightmares of
unforgiving suns, wicked songbirds, and the naturalistic
earth which bursts with happiness mocking her and
taunting her to eternal unrest.
22 February 1998