Word: florals
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Right about then, a squat, bull-necked dude, wild with drink, began elbowing his way through the crowd, bellowing for another Schlitz. He seemed to be the type that sends floral bouquets to funerals with the inscription "I AM VERY SORRY THAT IT HAD TO COME TO THIS" written on them. I loved the man, for I knew that he would provide the story. I had spent a lifetime waiting to write...
...holiday, both seasonal and pagan, May Day goes back thousands of years. Some remnants of this ancient past still survive: on May Day, French gentlemen give their ladies bouquets of lilies of the valley. In Greece, doors and balconies are decked with floral wreaths. In Czechoslovakia, traditional vows of love are exchanged...
...LONG lonely sound of the Long Island Railroad came aching down and down the track. Floral Park, Long Island was covered, silent and pure. The lost women, bundled mysteriously in snowsuits and galoshes, slipped, slithered, splashed, cursed and fell into the cold new-sprung fantasies of Long Island slush. They called to us, those strong silent people of this frontier town as they crouched proud and good against the creeping creeps of Queens. They called to us through the black ladened skies. "Get out of town. Cut your hair." Strange, and lonely, their cry. Floral Park, Long Island, I long...
...THEN it comes, the tin-horned train on the fairground tracks, tinkling its way into Floral Park. It stops dark and cold to take on its suspicious passengers. Its blackened windows laugh at our stupid obedience, as we wordlessly without question surrender, to let it take us where it will, to whatever nefarious tunnel in the cold earth's lung...
...England, they cry, long-legged mysteries of girls on Garden Street, secrets of Schoenhofs, wonders of Wideners. The small warm rooms, and the man with the pipe, and the strange wild fury which rages in purity around the kiosk. Oh lost, and by the wind greaved, Floral Park, Long Island, I long...