Hair Salons. Existentialism

falling
against my wrist
the strands of
reddish blonde hair

snapping. quickly snapping. the quickened cloth and powdered
blue scented
photographs are inside stories
newsprints. for-sale-help-wanted-telephone
numerals
printed upside down.
there is a cacophony of need here too much
for every-
one and one
and no-
one to grab onto. the signs are curling.

the sudden rush
of dead heat the weight-of-it upholding
my wettened-candle
hair (falling
light
against my wrist.)

something is thin. yes. the space inside the door or
the iced-over sidewalk. this far into summer and it
may even be autumn. or winter. that strand
of hair
lying on the interrupted walkway could have
brushed his face. could have bitten down his hand
as it shook innocuously out of the
way. could have brushed
his vein-
paper wrist in an exceptionally historic moment
of Nothingness

ah. existential, the hair salon. some-
thing like Hemingway
getting a bit
of a shampoo and
trim

around the nape of his manly neck

it falls thin on his
wrist.