the word on the street

the word on the street

fiction
edward w pritchard

The word on the street is silenced and the "low spark of the high heeled boys"[1] dispersed sometime around 1971 out near San Fran, California I suppose on one of those hilly one way roads that plunge into the ocean where people with long hair wrapped in flags for warmth and boogie woogie country girls sang protest songs wearing short shorts and country western cowboy boots looking back over their well rounded soft shoulders to see if me the impersonal representative of my species noticed their fragility. Flash me the peace sign sweet Madonna I have lost my way. "I believe in god but don't think he believes in me"[2]. The War is over sorta but there is nothing to shout against and no one to give the finger to in specious anger them being us, all part of a mechanical impersonal sort of problem that has something to do with global warming, aging, endless cheesy consumerism, and god's and our imminent demise.

I heard the pregnant pause of an empty voice mail box, silent but expressive which will keep me going for a while, an eternity or two really and I saw Mars ascendant bright angry red in the sky last night, brighter than Jupiter but not aligned afraid to say, no more age of Aquarius still when the new administration lowers taxes which triggers 5 % GDP growth everything will be alright again, even with that empty voice mail box restraining the shadow of your smile; until that flip top cell phone ends in the landfill of the hole left by the vacant buildings recently torn down uptown to create empty space to revitalize our personal habitat and immediate future.

[1] "traffic" the music group"
[2] "Hair, LET THE SUNSHINE IN from the rock opera Aquarius