Kurt R.

49 KURT R. Comes home from work red-eyed from late night meetings, alarm lopped sleep, from all day sawing sawing pine studs, glistenings froze stiff as bricks. Stomping snow from his shoes he unzips his oversuit, sprawls in a chair. Has a cup of coffee. And basks in the bright spot that has made his day. Banner headlines in the bourgeois press: Rockefeller is dead! Died (official version) editing a book on modern art. Maybe, at last, modem art has struck back!? In a pig's ass. 50 Kurt R. will believe it when he sees it. Meanwhile, considering his own bunch of bones he zips his oversuit back up, slowly, as though stitching up his chest. He's making sure. Going out scattering Rocky's ashes, like bright sawdust on the snow... The ashes are newspapers tucked under his arm— English/Spanish communist papers he peddles on West Avenue, doorstep to doorstep in subzero weather. After each stop he jots down the number of the house, how they took it, why and why not: 51 'because it's true' or, half's in Spanish or 'it's only a dime' or 'we don't want that crap...' Cheerful, gaunt, obsessed puffing and billowing ashes, he counts out the change, now and then thinking what are you doing, you sap! how did you get into this? blowing a bit of warm breath on the littlest finger of the correct line a worker must live in this life.. ...