Pedestrian's
Coalition
peter knight
peter knight
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From the end of the peninsula, with no gas and no food, and without sleeping, at midnight they called the telephone booth, and let it ring. I feel concerned, and I tell the man at the counter and he says that he too is worried some, but hungry more often. At 2:30 someone picked up the phone and said, I live in a railroad apartment on this corner, and you're keeping me awake, who are you and are you trying to reach me. They told her to go back and to turn the TV to channel seven and that there she would receive her directions and she said "wait I think I have a call on the other line." I lick my lips eating moon pies in the street, and I look up at the sky and see no stars but a pink sky, and it makes sense to me. I can see the girl at the telephone booth from here, talking into the phone and rubbing her eyes, and I want to go to her and talk, but she doesn't know that I know her. Sometimes you really wish that you had a ghetto blaster, and some nice music. Or a collection of postcards, to sell or share. In any event, I know why they want her to turn her TV to channel seven, it's the very same reason that they have asked me to stand here and wait, I can't tell you exactly but I can say this: in your bathroom there's a toilet and inside that toilet water, in that water microbes, and inside those microbes structures called organelles that function so that it might live, much like a human being. There is a tall hill in San Francisco called Jupiter Mansions, I fill out a form and enter the restaurant then I order some food and in my mind decorate a home for Christmas. You squirm on your sofa and consider taking off your clothes: outside dogs line the fence. She becomes fed up and pours her wine cooler all over herself, walks inside, puts on Otis Redding and takes a bath. I'm picked up two days later in Grand Central Station for soliciting music from a ticket machine. If only she'd listened, you softly mutter to yourself.