How Things Go Down

Talking point black, argumenting matter of fact. Listening intently. At a corner below willow trees hanging of street lamb posts, preserved, with hanging plant pots, watered at 11am, daily, by the council, with our taxes. There standing. Stoic. Serious. Never had a conversation felt more relevant, a decision more pressing, and connection to the moment more direct. And in sudden, deep in the mili-second, of the hundreds that exist within a minute, of the sighs that go often unnoticed, deep in there, way deep, a man came rushing from the unnoticed corner. Pointing. Blushing. Aroused. Excited. Confounded. Dirty. He walks out and grabs our two arms and finishes off that point in time that felt so defining, so relevant, so ego-cusping. And he spins out arms and pulls, and pulls. Never have we trusted adults to touch us. Much less strangers to lead us by the arm. But he is incessant. And he cannot talk nor hear. So we follow. Like dogs. Like cattle. And we near a Mews street. Where trash is everywhere. Paper, white paper, and plastic. Nothing organic. A printer has exploited everywhere. And a whirlwind of white is everywhere. And as we get pulled we approach. A white pig awaits. He is smoking a gun. And he speaks. And he says to me and him: never ride high on an argument, you will oink.