Where do people cry? In the alleys—of which there are many for such a small town; in front of the bars, of which there are four or five per city block; in the library and at the bus stop. I cried in August in front of the air hose at the IC Pit Stop gas station because I couldn't figure out how to gauge the pressure in my tires and I was late.
I was only able to put up two: The first was placed outside Dave's Foxhead Tavern where writers are said to hang out. Writers are, as a rule, quite weepy.
The second I placed in the alley near the entrance of Studio 13. The electrical pole seemed conducive to tears and nights of regret.
The third I wanted to put in the Pedestrian Mall where many bars are and where the abyss of parties and people that is this college town congregate at 2am looking for love and gyros. But this proved impossible. My masking tape had failed me, newly bought it would still not come off itself. It had adhered together. There were no electrical poles and the places the city had designated for fliers seemed too pre-approved. I wanted it to be somewhere people cried. So I decided, better to wait than to place it in the wrong place. Tomorrow, I will go and return my failed masking tape to staples and instead by poster tape. Then I will place the last broadside in a secret place in the Pedestrian Mall.
|The alley where the club is|
|The masking tape has proved formidable and melted|
|Where smokers cry|
|Down the alley from Prarie Lights across from Studio 13|
|For poets and writers|
|If I had a hammer, my thumb wouldn't be black and blue|