by Tomorrow's Man
June 14, 2003
That man mentioned a spotlight, that man a megaphone, that one mentioned a shotgun. The woman, there, rocks and calls in a warble the name of her child on the moon. Over there, a racquetball is experiencing a torture unknown to most. Beneath my left shoe is the unfortunate corpse of an ant, and beneath my right is nothing -- no pavement, no grass or ground, just a small hole a bit too small to fit a baseball that goes away to nowhere, goes away to a place where the child on the moon is laughing.