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The East Village
With the olive green I pictured him. With shiny black shoes I pictured him stamping me out while I pictured him. He sent letters to all his friends which enveloped no words only subtly commanding colors. The house was no bigger than small and we all had fires with our feet getting hot near the coals. I was near his farness, he commanded me with deep red triangles and purple silouettes of women running. In the summer when we were both twelve we saw the women, with paisley cheap cloth running like decisions of waterfalls across the tawny field. His name was Boris. Boris could never forget the women running, that is how he spoke. His name was painted by bird shit on cold pavement, the fire and gunshots made them fly and Boris said he would question nothing with a question he would give himself to appearing stupid with some naive statement and that was his question, both whether you could answer the question and whether you knew that the statement was a question. Gaining words is a game. Flutter and piss rot. Smile and contempt. It matters the way he walks without a word to a step.