"in this neighborhood about 4 blocks north and 2 south sits a small house paint peeling and weeds growing in the front yard and all around this house are other houses with perfect green lawns trimmed hedges flowers and polished autos sitting in the drives.
"I like this guy," I tell my woman. "I'd sure like to see him, you know, see what he looks like."
"I've seen him," says my woman. "yeah? yeah? how? when?"
"twice. and each time it was the same. he was just sitting in his window and he had his hat on and pulled down low
over his eyes." "beautiful," I say, "beautiful."
I keep driving by hoping to see him for myself but I never do. anyhow, for me he's the salvation of this neighborhood. it's when people are all the same that everything gets named and useless
and here's this saint without a name. "-Charles Bukowski, "Miracle Man"
[New Brunswick, NJ, April 2008]
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