annes not home. its too late to call katy. same old shit. words are dried up and stiff. same old pile of dog crap. nobody home. no one to call on the telephone. no e-mail. no mail. no messages. 0. a big red lighted-segment 0. Delight fell out the window an hour ago and broke its ass on the word bitch hungry rapture hour after hour he sells it they buy it. I dont buy it. Not from him. Or maybe I have. How would I even know. Cunt. slap. Ill go around the corner and slap some other bitch. Does a man like that deserve to die? Or just have the shit kicked out of him till his teeth slide down his throat on a current of blood. But hard words will do nothing alone. Alone. Too many people too alone. This is the state of the magic in Milwaukee City, Nineteen Hundred and Ninety Seven the Year of Our Lord, USA, etcetera etcetera a little rock ball around a little gas bomb in a flaky tendril of a beautiful cosmic event that sometimes streaks across the night sky and makes you wonder. How about in your city? Could somebody please report in, please? Its so quiet out here in my soldier suit. Cry. Makes you want to cry, doesnt it. Some time ago I sat in a nest of tan grass with my girl. We were on the other side of the country, on the edge of the continent, where it starts to riddle into water and mingle with the salt and darkness of the lonesome Pacific. How I heard the sea call like a bell. And she and I sat there in a nest about the size of a deers bed, looking back over the chilly water to the city across the inlet. It was the Emerald City, and I would not believe it myself if I hadnt been there. I want to cry but I cant seem to. Somethings too tight. I left something in that patch of tan grass, hidden among the rustling wide blades, nurtured by the silky wind. Yeah, I think I left something there, something that fell out of my pocket and is surely gone now. Maybe it is still there. I dont think too many people go and sit in that same spot. I said to her, Well have to remember this place. She said, We will. And I forgot all about it until tonight. How come you cant touch the ones you love? I dont even have the energy to list all the things I am not. That is usually what I have to get out of the way before I can write a story. Or sometimes I just dont show up for that part, and the things I am can actually be. Whatever. All I know is, sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesnt. And the people in the alley still havent cleaned up that same old pile of dog crap.