Some sort of lint in my last cup of coffee or any other reason to bitch prematurely. I have no care anymore for this obsession with doors for destinations are all whores. She will only paint with wolves’ hair brushes and supposedly I am the brute. She would pierce herself to shatter her infectiousness. She knew exactly how to fragment. Life’s junctures are punctures. I lost my last dollar before I could jukebox destiny it. Somehow at the edge of the world it becomes scapula-flat so who splattered this sea in order to confine me? I drank right out of the pitcher and ate the jalapenos and so I must have been Shanghaied. My mind has the colors of a complimentary map enclosed in a National Geographic. Now dad is born again with a new wife a decade away from her and all of us and she is a blond-bomb-shell by my grandma’s standards. The funny thing about rivers is that they only end in oceans. I think that this is called getting away with something. Well, there will always be toothaches and diarrhea. There will always be long-distance phonebills and letters arriving. Well, at least until the terrorists and the pharmaceutical companies assume the earth. But there will always be poets and people starving. And a moon coming up. Spending money you don’t have always. This is mankind always hoping that someone he loves is pulling into town any minute now.