Ten days secluded now, improper and unshaven inside a black and gold hole, dope den of sultry sound and opiate mood.

Love is a svelte dagger, a gentle rapping, a triple-seven. Love is my law, makes me weep,

The Rock made me to see each month as a day. The Rock implored that I be patie… with a patience so radical it slips into renunciation

To be a ghost is to always be aghast— To not know which direction is the future or the past.

It can get worse, there are hell realms. I’m misquoting someone but, I’ve heard it said:

When the world wasn’t burning I felt optimistic that one day I could come home

It’s not so easy anymore, a few beers won’t topple me. Twelve hours will mend me. I am boxing a balloon, humping a leg—

Yes, it’s a famous song— “Unbroken Chain” by the Grateful Dead, a good band name as an aside,

death with a sickle and like most any farmer their work is never done and life never stops springing for… and never tires of trying

The ravens were about me and I felt as though I moved with the… Full am I, too, of grace and inst… Knowing the wind can tell a secret… being a vastness of numbers,

Hell came through on battered wings, and thought to ask just one last thing. That If I could,

III Too late to call vagrancy a fad, an experiment. I am too old and still at it. But it isn’t like I am separate

The moon lulls me as I wade through poppy fields, dragging limp hands behind me, catching each pod long enough before it snaps upright again