An Uncommon Long Cable : Central Park, NYC

Quaint, we will begin quaint. By the trash can in the grass next to the roadside. Gravel crunching runners and bicycle wheels. Some grape juice and a few boxes of paper. A gate, some trees and a walkway.

"Where are these suckers?" Two bikers lost ahead. The buildings behind the sparse screen of trees, beyond the reservoir. Me, sitting patiently in a tie and a nice shirt: two dollars from the army of salvation. White dog. Glasses man. I love--heart--excuse me. I heart New York. Harry Potter conversation from a real life Ron Weasley. Kids kicking dust and interested in T-Rex. Electronic.

There is a bridge to the left built with large leafy swoops and colored the underside of a two-toned leaf. That grey-green subtle latticework of the underside of leaves. This man running, I type to his steps. So much green silence but for my own clacking. Distant city roars. Airplanes, a siren. Distant.

Large breasts find no rest on a jogger. Those rhythmic bosoms jouncing jollily with each progressive step. The bulky white man has dainty hands and a grass stain on his shirt.

The things that are quick. The parts of people that are quick.

The woman: pointy elbowed, bouncing blond pony tail. Walkers unquick but for their flannel. Woman in the sun, skin showing bony, skin-bathing, book-reading. Helicopters, helicopters, birds in the distance, buildings, helicopters. Back again so soon the quick, thin girl with the bobbing, bouncing pony tail. The walking man smells what's in his hand. Is it bark? Hashish? Feces? I long to know! and it is about time to light a cigarette...

Holy Moses and Karl Malone! here I am all alone with a cigarette and some burgundy, watching the clouds over me...

How to pee in Central Park: lie on your side as if you were sleeping. Unzip and unfurl. you must wait for the bursts and hope the dribble dries before you leave.

Once a cup is done it is time to move on. Dribble be damned! at least I have long shirt ends.

A bit more of humanity at the great lawn. Great shade under the great trees. Great breeze where children play on the grass. Where a fowl-mouthed, sour-mouthed man walks his golden retriever and a man sings incoherence while doing pull-ups next to the swing set. Just a half-a-cup's worth of time where the cops ride slow with sirens silent but red and blue flashing.

Again the look for the quick and it isn't always with humans. Bark formations of bent trees, slow in attaining, are quick with static aura; brown-green silent pulsating photosynthesis. Yes, these trees are quite quick. A girl jogs, her hair swishes. A man walks his bike. A man walks his dog. Everyone is going somewhere for a short while. Stroller. Red shirt striped white. Lollipop plucked out of salivated mouth. Cell phone. Cell phone. Cell phone. Hot pink woman unquick and sitting globy and leaning. Bad-form push-ups from the shirtless man parked bike to the right.

Stroller rides! That dad is quick! We'll get from here to there in a jiffy! Just jump on son and I'll pedal our little one across the whole damn park like lightning, scooter style.

Quick on the lawn the arch of Frisbee and the clap of mitts making catches. Floating orbs slow in motion for the minute of flight but sucked into leather-gloved oblivion, absolute for half a second.

The tall gawking bird-man is quick as a whip, his jerky step and headphones intent with stork legs bent (forward of course) but his eyes covered by sunglasses.

Slow, holding hands, both hunched, father-daughter saunter. Slow-coasting bald man grey-sweated shirt meandering two-wheeled. Kids and badminton. So nicely dressed, they must be English: Let's have tea in the gallery with father's mistress. Oh do! let's!

Time to go, I'm getting slow, let's hear what Herman Melville says: "There are your iron fists, hey? What a hold they have, too! I wonder, Flask, whether the world is anchored anywhere, if she is, she swings with an uncommon long cable."