Upon my release, I will rise, go to Copy Services, make Copies of these, go forth, leave Copies on every fake stump in the Room, every chair in Dining, in the Coat Check of disco, the stables of now we joust, the saloons of west, on the seats of the Tram, as it speeds in its unceasing loop from sister workhouse to sister workhouse, from lovefest, cali creek, in the north, to dreamy maine summer, in the south, so that all may know the truth and be moved to ask, perhaps in some quiet moment: Is this world we have made a world in which lovers may thrive?

Though I will not live to see it, and dread the kicking that must come, may these words play some part in bringing the old world down.

Mother’s Day

MOTHER’S DAY

The trees along Pine Street that every spring bloomed purple flowers had bloomed purple flowers. So what? What was the big deal? It happened every spring. Pammy kept saying, “Look at the flowers, Ma. Ain’t them flowers amazing?” The kids were trying to kiss up. Paulie had flown in and Pammy had taken her to Mother’s Day lunch and now was holding her hand. Holding her hand! Right on Pine. The girl who once slapped her own mother for attempting to adjust her collar.

Pammy said, “Ma, these flowers, wow, they really blow me away.”

Just like Pammy to take her mother to lunch in a sweatshirt with a crossed-out picture of a machine gun on it. What about a nice dress? Or pantsuit? At least this time Pammy and Paulie hadn’t been on her about the smoking. Even back when Pammy was taking harp, even back when Paulie’s hair was long and he was dating that Eileen, even after Eileen slept around and Paulie shaved his head, whenever Paulie and Pammy came over, they were always on her about the smoking. Which was rude. They had no right. When their father was alive they wouldn’t have dared. When Pammy slapped her hand for adjusting her collar, Paul Sr. had given her such a wallop.

The town looked nice. The flags were flying.

“Ma, did you like your lunch?” Pammy said.

“I liked it fine,” Alma said.

At least she didn’t have an old-lady voice. She just had her same voice, like when she was young and nobody had looked better in a tight dress going for cocktails.

“Ma, I know what,” Pammy said. “How about we walk up Pickle Street?”

What was Pammy trying to do? Cripple her? They’d been out two hours already. Paulie’d slept late and missed lunch. He’d just flown in and, boy, were his arms tired. Paul Sr. had always said that after a trip. Paulie had not said that. Paulie not having his father’s wit. Plus, it looked like rain. Black-blue clouds were hanging over the canal bridge.