The face – his face – looked familiar, familial.
But that story has changed so that the All-American kids finish their job. Uncle Sam wants them, after all. He yearns for them, hungers for their righteousness and their small-minded rage.
...of course, there was no one to hear him say this.
mrs. weissman... teeth... congealed beef. darkness. no dreams.
For he was on his way back to the depths of the earth. And soil has no name. Has only parts that crunch like sand, taste like salt, smell like sulfur or decayed skunkweed. He was nearly earth again. Very nearly.
And there you are: outside the window. Outside, looking in. Outside, leaning against the naked tree.
And then you got in your car, rumbled over the curb, and there I was: in your headlights.
The world does not know me, he repeated. The world does not know me, he said again and mostly to his nearly-full glass of wine.
Leaves 