trees, boys hang a horse with a broken leg.
One plays “I’m Leavin’ Cheyenne” on his
harmonica, they pass around an onion and
cry. They stand up and swing off through the
branches with Tarzan cries.
We is all out on a long silver bail.
It was a day like any other when I walk down
the Main Line to the Sargasso, pass faces set
athousand years in matrix of evil, faces with
eerie innocence of old people, faces vacant of
intent. Sit down in the green chair provided
for me by other men occupy all the others.
Convey my order with usual repetitions—at
one time I was threatened by rum and Cin-
zano, whereas I order mint tea. I sit back and
make this scene, mosaic of juxtapositions,
strange golden chains of Negro substance
seeped up from the Unborn South. So I do
not at once dig the deformed child—I call it
that for want of a better name: actually it
look between unsuccessful baboon and
bloated lemur, with a sort of moldy sour