This stuff about life is no good for me. The present squeezes me thru its sphincter. Here I am. Taaduh. If there were a view to encompass, you’d be the first to know. Stash your longing in a clever metaphor. Cook up some chili like a real man do. Get a grant to go to the dentist. What else do we do once a decade? Are loved. And if the mongrel designation had never grown tired, perhaps some unguarded communion among three to five persons of similar taste or sensibility. The tongue massaged into conversation. Bridges that come easily. The good sense to aspire toward austerity at night. But I carry caveats in my pocket like smoke bombs, and memory is gnarlier ever than fond. To tease the milk from a clump of ash requires too much too often. I’m on the side of a hill, trying to improvise a geodesic dome out of twigs and a slice of bleached french bread. I’m hissing to myself about popular culture. I’m recalling how the vats need drained.