home | | | | | |archive | | | | | |profile | | | | | |notes | | | | | |previous | | | | | |next

way out past never

I have homemade rifles and handguns. Held together by rust and duct tape. I test them in shadows of the broken freeway. The sky is old and grey. Strangers fear my torn raincoat and the dirty bandages on my fingers. I patrol the empty parking lots, searching for small creatures to kill.

Today, I shot a two-headed dog that had brown blood and bottomless eyes. It roasts now over an open flame in the corner of this room. I brought home a case of wine I found in the trunk of an abandoned car. The wine has a very earthy taste--like the grave of a god buried a long time ago. I tune my receiver to a station that plays Count Basie and Duke Ellington all night. I eat the dog. I drink the wine. I sit in my chair, listen to the radio, and rock back and forth. I raise a loneliness and wrap it in blinking Christmas lights. I fall asleep listening to Billie Holiday singing from a night of distant stars.

previous | next