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An Oak Cliff Tale Possibly the wail of a drunken Banshee or that of a desperate man with a freshly broken heart, not sure, but it was definitely anger loud defiant anger, thunderous. Not just everyday fuck this or fuck that anger, but balls to the wall hating the lord God, vibrating tonsils, punching holes in the dark anger. And so close. Out the window on the street some plaintiff screamer cursing fate or a woman, or his own failings. These vocal bullets could have shattered the window, drawn to the lamplight striking my pregnant wife. (I fear) Or come like chaotic bricks, smashing the world falling defiant to the floor. It could have been me fourteen years ago, spitting into the sky demanding more of life, and love, little realizing that the worst was yet to come. But this voice is foreign possibly Spanish or indiscernibly intoxicated, not that of an existentialist being let down easy, possibly that of a killer, an executioner human in form only. Challenging life. While we that are aging, fragile with responsibility and very small fears, lamplight mannequins, poised reading poetry in bed, simply do not answer. There is no answer. He screams outside the window. He screams on the street corner. He screams down the block. He screams until barely audible then gone. Only one in a series of unknowable passing tragedies, late, on an Oak Cliff Monday while cats roam the streets and wives are asleep.
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