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AnarchyU.S. Grant shaves and shines his teeth and cleans lint off his best pants. Nothing U.S. Grant can do with his boots: stitches in seams shot, paint spotted hide of something dead -- and these soles, slanted, bare fiber scuff his steps. U.S. Grant doesn't look for love in the right places. He doesn't take love when it's given, fumbles when he's got it. "Jeezus," U.S. Grant mutters, "How this war lingers on and on..." U.S. Grant rides through the rocky mountain foothills sprawled with sage above him vultures turn to biplanes dogfight, downshift a '57 chevy plunges into the east walls of suburban homes People in Utah and Idaho scream, their skulls white dimes. U.S. Grant is cold in San Fransico's July. He rolls a cigarette in Union Square and by his side a yellow-jacketed Indian says he travels only in the white cities or else he leaves a crooked trail and his friends get lost in Mexico. U.S. Grant philosophizes: "Such trouble; yes, keep life simple." U.S. Grant travels to Portland, to Vancouver where he meets a very old Indian who speaks of his wartime in Liverpool. Drinking Mogen David, U.S. Grant watches the Indian kneel down upon the rocks his cigarette unlit for three, four, couple of hours. U.S. Grant sits around the camp fire and the old Indian explains, "These are my children. They give me reason to live." The next night U.S. Grant sleeps in Taos. China bells from an eave hang and play a Hopi wind song. Townlights across the mesa glow like embers. The fullskied night echoes these adobe walls The wood burning stove is cool since dinner U.S. Grant is tired, he's done a full day today, the fiftieth birth of the atomic bomb eased by the yip-yip of coyote. |
Page Updated: 6/12/00