GRGR(8) what's that smell? 154

[nconaty at juno.com]

The obstruction seems to have cleared and here in the Red River Valley we
are experiencing a deluge of W.A.S.T.E. products. Consequently, I don't
know if this has been mentioned yet.

Now there grows among all the rooms, replacing the night's old smoke,
alcohol and sweat, the fragile, musaceous odor of Breakfast: flowery,
permeating, surprising, more than the color of winter sunlight, taking
over not so much through any brute pungency or volume as by the high
intricacy to the weaving of its molecules, sharing the conjuror's secret
by which - though it is not often Death is told so clearly to fuck off -
the living genetic chains prove even labyrinthine enough to preserve some
human face down ten or twenty generations . . . so the same
assertion-through-structure allows this war morning's banana fragrance to
meander, repossess, prevail. Is there any reason not to open every
window, and let the kind scent blanket all Chelsea? As a spell against
falling objects. . . .

They are shivering and hungry. In the Studentenheim there's no heat, not
much light, millions of roaches. A smell of cabbage, old second Reich,
grandmothers' cabbage, of lard smoke that has found, over the years, some
detente with the air that seeks to break it down, smells of long illness
and terminal occupation stir off the crumbling walls.


Do I smell? I smell homecooking. It's only the river, it's only the
river. -D. Byrne







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