Disoriented

None of this makes any sense, I don't know who any of these people are. Punk rock is dirty gospel. Nothing much to say about that, I cringe when people say grace. Cut to the chase. Two steps back. Time to kill. The light has changed, slanted and hard. A cut off the new Bob Dylan album, soon after midnight, a ballad, it's very good. Soon after midnight and I fall into a reverie. Anyone could sing better than me, way over yonder in a minor key. 'The red hot palm of my hand' I hear as too many vacancies. The more you listen closely, the less there is to hear. Gone, the less I have to say the better, just a brush on the snare drum, a diminished chord. Greg Allman, now, on the radio. Almost dawn. Decided to stay up and maybe take a nap later (though I never do), made a triple espresso and a lovely sandwich of left-over fried potatoes, mayo, and a big slice of raw sweet onion. Escapism seemed in order, after a week I'd rather forget, so I read another Thomas Perry novel. Physically sore, but no more than I've come to expect. Good to get off my feet. I soaked them in hot water, dried them, then rubbed in an arnica balm that they seemed to appreciate. I put on a throw-away pair of socks and dust-mopped with them, then turned them inside-out into the trash. This is a laughable but not a bad way to clean. If you put a little spray glue on the outsides you can pick up an amazing amount of crap. A little dance around and under things. The edges are where shit accumulates. The ice caps are melting and low-riding countries are at risk. New Orleans is a lost cause, you ever been there? barges of petrochemicals above your head on the river. I mean, really. The time for sentimental crap is over. Grant them a great horn section, they are a marching band after all, and horns are important, but It's not a good time to live below sea-level. I've lived here, now, longer than I've ever lived anywhere, 13 years, and I probably won't ever leave. 1380 feet above sea-level. This particular cave, tree-tip pit, tar-paper shack, lined with books and supported by piles of paper, is about what I need. Four in the morning there's the usual ruckus outside, the food-chain fighting for my scraps. Indicates how cut-throat the game actually is, because I don't have a lot of waste. Two coons, bandits with their stripes, are arguing over a carrot. I imagine I know what they're saying. A comedy routine with a great many bleeped words. A paragraph about carrots in which the word fuck is used as every part of speech. It's spelling-binding. I have to laugh, walking back inside, getting a drink, rolling a smoke, conjugating fuck. This is, in fact, the way I spend my time. A loaf of bread, a dozen eggs, some tomatoes, and you. Pretty much my world. In the background there is often the patter of something, I want to say, not necessarily a note of longing, but something about memory. An actual event becomes hazy when remembered. You might be sure the Queen waved before the bomb went off. The evidence is that the bomb went off first.