Hand

Its been some ages of many shades. A lot of walking, multiple points of distress and now a jammed vein on my right hand from the handle of a bad bike. Will also wait a little longer before winging - maybe a little planning this time will be nicer. The knowledge has done help, in triangular heaps. Trying to find more about the Indian male's fetish for the white woman pointed well in the analysis of Rushdie's East,West. The stabilizing plain is that i have for all purposes put in mes papiers which is mighty and magnanimi. One thing i'm very certain about is that i'm tired of the increasing number of snootsasses in the city who cant have a conversation, too often pretending they havent the time for it; and so any person faced with that says why the hell pursue it if they arent interested? Rightly so, but that means we're turning into the dreaded other. What then ? -be selectively sunshiney? Dont know at all cept that i prefer the company of bus-stinkies like me and the great fringe majority who if u pursue have their own path of distressing narowness. But some marginalized groups with little money are naturally more permissive and wide-thinking that the buck-beholden cream held in elected trappings.
That reminds me of HANDS. I'm a voyeur of hands - the history in them of mankind and truth. I've been coming across too many passages of men celebrating the bird hands of their lady love. How would a construction worker put it? The hands of the female worker that built the swanking studio-apartment now gwaced by a lady of the same age with skin that gloes and hands a match for marble and yes finely turned. And now one of these women will be serenaded as a standard for beauty in films watched even by the labourer nobody remembers. Sure, the construction's going to last longer than the feted palm. But what about the worker's hands? What about it? Will they become the object of popular poetry in some age? Make it our own.