Mark's Pages

March 20, 2003:

"I'm gonna shoo-tchoo, motherfuck!" Street sounds through an open window, Masonic Street, San Francisco, Summer 1989. Early a.m., maybe 3:00. "You gonna die right h'year."

Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop, five shots, like very small firecrackers, almost like the capguns you played with as a child. Running feet. No other sounds but traffic for about two minutes, then the rising doppler of a paramedics' siren drawing nearer.

Unable to rise, unable to move, unable to think, you lie looking at the ceiling, blood red in the reflected streetlight. Did a man just die outside?

Real people's real lives. What does it have to do with you?