me how to kill and said, Do not
To finally open that door to so much hate in myself, so much anger, and be inside, loving myself there, was different than Melio with his grocery store. A matter of poise. I wasn’t thinking do or don’t. First time in my life, Unreal. To be in motion going somewhere at last in time. History, as a cut-out almost two dimensional.
There is an Assassin
Brooklyn looked like yellow teeth sticking up from the bite of the river. Rushing past the Squibb Buildings and The Watchtower I was pushed, shoved, poked, and prodded, past the strollers arm in arm, blared at, then honked. Stalled and stuttering, in the heat, down the ramp, and onto the long stunted boulevard Atlantic Avenue.
No love in my life except death.
I thought Betsy would be terrified. Disappointed in me, too. That, for once, this was a manly feeling.
I thought she did not, could not, love him as a man, the Senator, but as her idol. Her Lord. Some God . . . The Senator and next President to be except for me pay to the order of Travis Bickle.
Didn’t see Betsy anywhere, though, and felt so sad but sadder still for Betsy. Not to know me as I really was. Ever.
Thought Palantine would surely recognize me and love me, as his assassin. I had some respect for him, or why else kill?
We would share this out-of-the-way passion. No more corruption. I would make sure. The garbage gets collected because he is a friend to man.
He speaks at a union hall on the corner of the street near a Pinchi Paints and a White Tower with maybe five-hundred supporters and fans, many old timers, women, the dinge, and a Dixieland jazz band under flatstraw hats to play him to the rostrum.
Grandstands built out of sections of board painted gray. For the VIPs. Borough President and Councilmen. Stuff like that. All in straw hats. The crowd cheering, laughing, gnattering. Even from a block away they seem restless for his love. Gray mice in a cage of shadows.
S.S. men everywhere in metallic suits.
Me parking three blocks away when I see his limo glisten. It moves a little at a time into the crowd, like hot lava, S.S. men running along both sides for protection. Cameras clicking, whirr of TVs, and those men with big weapons like BARs on their shoulders that are only movie cameras.
I feel Nam queezy, of course, in the rear of the crowd, the only man with such short hair sticking straight up like Dagwood.
A mash of VIPs, and these damn S.S., of course, around the Senator, in seersucker. Sweatless and neat, he makes his way through the crowd, with all his excellence adored.
Cheering him for simply being there with them. I think they are fools who deserve to be slaves to such masters.
Keeping my thoughts to myself.
Me with all my guns like heavy wrenches walking slowly toward that mob, boots burn my ankles. Stayed way in the rear near the fringes, slightly hunched over, hands shoved inside of my pockets.
Removed them only once to pop a coupla reds. I felt drained. Wilted. Glasses pinching to the bridge of my nose. There would be red marks tonight again on the sides of my nose. I stayed. Stayed back. Out of sight at first out of mind. Must remember be still. Quiet. Sullen for the sake of death.
Saw that same S.S. guy I spoke to a week or so ago. On the platform next to Palantine, and Betsy’s Tom. No Betsy anywhere. Periscope face of S.S. scanning through the crowd.
I duck behind a woman’s bare freckled back to applause from the crowd.
Palantine speaks: “. . . and with your help we will go onto victory at the polls Tuesday . . .”
Big applause me moving closer.
“. . . on to victory in Miami Beach next month . . . ”
The crowd loud against its hands claps big paddles being waved. Cries “You said it Senator.”
“We’re with you . . .”
The closer I get the louder his voice, a dinning into my ears all headachey. “And on . . . to victory next November!”
He steps back. I lunge forward and then duck back again. I have my hand on the gun
To finally open that door to so much hate in myself, so much anger, and be inside, loving myself there, was different than Melio with his grocery store. A matter of poise. I wasn’t thinking do or don’t. First time in my life, Unreal. To be in motion going somewhere at last in time. History, as a cut-out almost two dimensional.
There is an Assassin
Brooklyn looked like yellow teeth sticking up from the bite of the river. Rushing past the Squibb Buildings and The Watchtower I was pushed, shoved, poked, and prodded, past the strollers arm in arm, blared at, then honked. Stalled and stuttering, in the heat, down the ramp, and onto the long stunted boulevard Atlantic Avenue.
No love in my life except death.
I thought Betsy would be terrified. Disappointed in me, too. That, for once, this was a manly feeling.
I thought she did not, could not, love him as a man, the Senator, but as her idol. Her Lord. Some God . . . The Senator and next President to be except for me pay to the order of Travis Bickle.
Didn’t see Betsy anywhere, though, and felt so sad but sadder still for Betsy. Not to know me as I really was. Ever.
Thought Palantine would surely recognize me and love me, as his assassin. I had some respect for him, or why else kill?
We would share this out-of-the-way passion. No more corruption. I would make sure. The garbage gets collected because he is a friend to man.
He speaks at a union hall on the corner of the street near a Pinchi Paints and a White Tower with maybe five-hundred supporters and fans, many old timers, women, the dinge, and a Dixieland jazz band under flatstraw hats to play him to the rostrum.
Grandstands built out of sections of board painted gray. For the VIPs. Borough President and Councilmen. Stuff like that. All in straw hats. The crowd cheering, laughing, gnattering. Even from a block away they seem restless for his love. Gray mice in a cage of shadows.
S.S. men everywhere in metallic suits.
Me parking three blocks away when I see his limo glisten. It moves a little at a time into the crowd, like hot lava, S.S. men running along both sides for protection. Cameras clicking, whirr of TVs, and those men with big weapons like BARs on their shoulders that are only movie cameras.
I feel Nam queezy, of course, in the rear of the crowd, the only man with such short hair sticking straight up like Dagwood.
A mash of VIPs, and these damn S.S., of course, around the Senator, in seersucker. Sweatless and neat, he makes his way through the crowd, with all his excellence adored.
Cheering him for simply being there with them. I think they are fools who deserve to be slaves to such masters.
Keeping my thoughts to myself.
Me with all my guns like heavy wrenches walking slowly toward that mob, boots burn my ankles. Stayed way in the rear near the fringes, slightly hunched over, hands shoved inside of my pockets.
Removed them only once to pop a coupla reds. I felt drained. Wilted. Glasses pinching to the bridge of my nose. There would be red marks tonight again on the sides of my nose. I stayed. Stayed back. Out of sight at first out of mind. Must remember be still. Quiet. Sullen for the sake of death.
Saw that same S.S. guy I spoke to a week or so ago. On the platform next to Palantine, and Betsy’s Tom. No Betsy anywhere. Periscope face of S.S. scanning through the crowd.
I duck behind a woman’s bare freckled back to applause from the crowd.
Palantine speaks: “. . . and with your help we will go onto victory at the polls Tuesday . . .”
Big applause me moving closer.
“. . . on to victory in Miami Beach next month . . . ”
The crowd loud against its hands claps big paddles being waved. Cries “You said it Senator.”
“We’re with you . . .”
The closer I get the louder his voice, a dinning into my ears all headachey. “And on . . . to victory next November!”
He steps back. I lunge forward and then duck back again. I have my hand on the gun
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