Jacob Lawrence, "Wounded Man," 1968
Jacob Lawrence, Wounded Man (1968)
Can a Game Be Literature?

Mark's Pages



Market Street sidewalk, late afternoon. Angry light, angry shadows. Tall man with clenched fists swims through the crowds like a shark among shoals of minnows.

Failure. Ineptitude of those empowered. Two years, and the outcome is that evil people are enriched while good people sleep under their desks like chattel.

"I'll kill you. Motherfucker. I'll kill you. I'll find you."
Voice of sorrow and pain.
Bike messenger on the ground, back against a lamppost, face to the sky, blood streaming from nose and ears. All the tired metaphors: streams of blood, rivers of blood. Red-orange, bright, thin, angry.
You help him pull his t-shirt off, press it against his flowing nose, hold your hand behind his head, wait together for the paramedics while his blood stains the sidewalk.
As he was riding a stranger punched him in the face. Spun down with no warning, sent him sprawling head-first into the pavement, disappeared into the shoals of minnows like a predator in the sea. At the precise moment you were swimming in your own rage.
Your head spins. Solipsism. You caused this. Your anger moved a stranger's fist into another stranger's face.

Dinner. Fish. Glassy dead eye stares at you and says: murderer.

Shall I project a world?