Progress
Kate and I saw the drooping eagleclaw light in the sky last night—which meant Andre Breton wanted to talk. We found him up on a girder of the Williamsburg Bridge, wrapped in a roting piece of carpet. The particulate of his homeless-man smell got stuck in my nose.
‘Vermillion dollars’, was the password, in the french cadence, so it sounded like one word. Kate spoke to him in diaphanous wispers and gestures, translating for us. He too had grown uneasy with the goings-on, and wanted to make a case to city hall. He wanted to give a ‘multimedia presentation,’ which made Alex loose his shit. We were all trying really hard not to laugh.
You can’t turn a man like Breton down, so today we sit and call all the members of City Council to a special meeting: invitations written in black ink on lotus leaves.
It is true that I fear his presentation will be him and an old Toshiba laptop, making dog bark sounds.
