in the park, one man sits down next to another, unshaven, in a crusty blazer, filthy cargo pants and boots, stinking like liquor,dozing. one minute later he's awake and stumbling out the gate

"fuck you

get away from me

you're not a real man"

and gives a glare of sideways disdain to a yuppie on her cellphone who almost runs him down under her car when he stumbles into the street.

as the humidity begins to break into rain at west 12th street and 8th avenue, the broken of the park slump and scream around an iron fountain, running over.

the baths of pigeons and the tortured, crippled motionlessness- agitated impotence- of the flung away.