Four black kids, pale as milk, race down
a city alley. In panic, in thrill? Their faces blank. Their
legs a blur against filthy cement. Someone in the background turns
Three Hispanics lean against a Chevy. Two of them
with arms folded, one with an eye patch looks glum; his companion,
sitting on the hood, sneers, sarcastic. 'Ey gringo! 'Ey 'mericano!
The third is wide-mouthed with laughter, his hands in his pockets.
He looks like he knows something.
But as always, the photo tells him nothing.
A fleshy middle-aged Caucasian, wall-eyed, in a
rumpled shirt, a pair of glasses balanced awkwardly on his nose, stares
out defensively. You can't tell what he's looking at. A reverse
Mona Lisa: no matter where you stand, he doesn't seem to be looking
His skin is blotched and saggy.
How badly white skin ages.
He flips to the next: a young woman in a halter
walks away in a glow of darkness, her head turned back, defiant, contemptuous.
Didn't even ask for her rate, and here I am
taking her picture: the nerve! ...
A retired dictator with a hare lip and wearing
a Hawaian shirt stares remotely at him through a large white pair
of sunglasses -- some nameless monster sipping daquiris in Miami,
sunbathing on the Florida sands between hurricanes and wet T-shirt
Nice picture. I even caught his snakelike
A pile of corpses lies smothered in mud, a
single living hand, in a triumphant wave, cut off at the corner.
The foul lieutenant with the disgusting smile,