My first job on Wall St. was walking invisibly to the Merrill Lynch office on Chestnut St. in Philly, past women in black sheaths and magnificent rears, high heels flapping. I worked in the cage. Thirty bookkeepers kept books to transcribe by hand trades posted each day. Brokers would present to the window, cashiers deliver checks out the door, which I survived to say this, that the pedestrians who familiarly touch the balls of the Bull for luck, and joke at the Horns, take their place in the world the way British tourists stand in front of the stones in the Lake Country joking, but are offended if you throw down pennies in the road. I might stop to look at Either/Or at a book shop on the way or kill time at lunch with The Future of Man among the diesel buses, or the Tractatus of Wittgenstein bought on the street of sausage and hot talk, but if you are privy to these Balls of the Bull you know a spatter of dew fell like dust in the morning then.

 Famous malls were built to pull down more moisture from the clouds, if there were any. The auto-bodies otherwise were fed by underground rivers from surrounding states whose expatriates went West, not quickly, but with slow motion rumors of strife. Refugees with briefcases opened and closed clasps on the right piece of paper. Some districts, Kolonia also called Motza, "below exempt," combined geography and prophecy in one brazen bull.  Fires set under the hollow bronze translated through a system of tubes and stops into sounds like a bellowing infuriated charge from the pensioners roasted inside. Bulls and bears could interchange roles then, depending on what geologics spin proportion and property of the place. The bear was second up, raised on one side with three ribs in its mouth. If you stand allegorical bestiaries, the first was a lion with eagle wings standing on its feet like a man with a human heart. The third was a leopard with chicken wings on its back and four heads that put Colonel Sanders out of business. The fourth ate them all, which ravenous epithets fragged all programed matter with actuation and display.

Brazen bull Kolonians built their own temples in seven books, meaning hills surrounding. Here an arm and a leg from Homer and the Egyptians before the Greeks. Along the borders Polyphemus played in the Anubian mud, but there was always a need of rain. Snake dances, street fairs of all sorts of totems evoked the gods of Serapeum, of Saqqara, Alexandria of the Apis bull in a weaving mass. Batists too paced single file in the streets chanting. To set the stage, bakers and artisans, sausage makers in the markets of Turkey  set up shop to service the masses. One wonders at people so resourceful they planted palm trees for shade and tied up donkeys under them, waiting. They took their Revelation seriously, camped in it or near to it as they could get. Tent cities covered the plain.

This was a long time or two of putty. Factory after factory drained elaborately.  The phase-locked ELF entrainment from scum made white foam and steam. I walked miles up the concrete tubes, which got smaller until some sphincter tinkled at the foot. Felled tree trunks scattered at the rivers' surface among train wrecked scrap cars and cubes of metal. I walked the tracks with a .22 to shoot out insulators on the power lines. Like some grandfather against illumination in the Esquilache Mutiny in Madrid in 1766, except I was ten. 4400 oil burning streetlamps twelve feet high of iron and glass were smashed I n protest against illumination. Spy cameras, geo phones, grid life surveillance lamps, cameras, microphone shot out. The first condition to turn this gas to light was to burn the gasoline clothing to obliterate the old. Pop obliterated Pop.  It was Annihilation of Now sprayed down in the dew hours before dawn. Probably before dawn, by now it is three pm and heavy clouds streak hundreds in the sky, not there at six. Poonoo wingkewang, the sprayers spray to meet it. Flibeedoo-flobeedee-buskeebang, staccato memory relocates to some remote bald spot. The sub aquean never felt so strong. The Reset Bull that martyred Antipas, Bishop of Pergamon when he cast out demons, changed the direction of the compass. Dehydration would seem its opposite, but everything is opposite there of what is here.