16 August 2004

Lying in the deep center bow of the horrendous Castro bed sideways with the aging jack Russell terrier, Millie, in my armpit and the brown dachshund, Gus, in my crotch. My back is as numb as my small hands are trapped underneath the reddened flesh festering in body odor and the burning pinpricks of heat amassing on my skin.

Through the hand-blown sash windowpanes projected up on the studio roof I see the trickle of opaque light and shadow reflecting from the front and rear lights of dumptrucks, diesel rigs, loud subwoofered bass house tracks exploding out from a disheveled Japanese car that escaped death from a scrap metal yard.  Through the muslin veil of dust mite infested curtains the cars zoom by leaving a trail of dust and faint sounds in low decibels vibrating above the murmur of crickets, flies, and owls.  I hear their songs in and outside of the tattered and shred screen porch off to my distant left behind the pillows out past the kitchen/dining room to the mowed valley floor beneath Spruce, Burnt, the Gallop and Derby Hill on the mountain road.

Above me through the ceiling window, the glimmering stars and specs of folding Venus, red Mars and the gas giants surface currents flowing in tandem rhythms of riverine matter held together firmly by gravity and other forces of physics.  Thoughts flicker like drunken pixies in the forest groves about existence, our odd species and my futures that cannot escape our future.  Wandering back down from ethereal nonsense I hit the granite face hard in the echo chamber of my mind, into aimless desultory depression dreaming of future ex-wives.  Names that I will forget cascade down through the subconscious cataracts.