Prose
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- Written by: bcpetrakos
- Category: Prose
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The Ghost of Maria Callas sings in the park at night
She sings queen of the night caressing the high notes in her ghost full voice
Ignored as she walks through the farthest part of Sunset and up into the hills.
Singing for the hiking paths fake grottos for the alleys, the steep steps, for Echo Park, singing to the traffic on the 101 freeway, she sings and she moves like she did on the scaffold in 1959.
Read more: The Queen Of The Night
Day of 02/17/02
I woke up early for Ulpan-Hebrew school that warm Israeli morning. My rama-gimmel-third levelteacher T. knew how to hold our interest. We started each lesson by listening to the previous day’s news. She’d ask up to interpret as much of this as possible. Then we’d go over last night’s homework.
11/24/01 11:30
My roommate J. pointed out to his friend A. that I’d bought two video tapes when I’d last visited the Central Bus station: a documentary on Jerusalem and a porno. I never saw either to the end. The porno almost made me vomit. I wanted to enjoy myself but when it got down to it, the scenes made me sick. The documentary on Jerusalem had been made for tourists, or so I thought.
Read more: Chapter from my Autobiography (Still in the works)
So I'm walking into work when this rust-colored finch flits past me. The finch is in hot pursuit of a large flying bug some sort of beetle I think. The two perform an amazing aerial dance. The bug dodges left and right up and down.
We don't carve our lives from time time our lives from itself. Like a cruel joke on our weak protests. It hides in its own question laughing at the ages it defines. It circles all of our segments leaving perception the only guess at lines; and some guesses are worth dying for. Isn't that history, or todays' news?
