they cannot compare to the dogs in here who make me wander out into the dark. wandering out onto a slab of dusty rock in the late night or early morning, looking for spiritual violence looking for water or sleep. red rimmed horizon stretching into a harsh and shameful daylight. i am standing, antsy on the rocks, our quadrant still layered in night. still humming with dark and silent energies while the suns bright band races into our country.

i just want a house in the mountains. i want to sit by the fire and read with my wife. and then, on my terms, not as a complusive behavior, to make art. this is what i see when i see my quiet and most happy future.

and until then it is desert nightmares and ropey, sandled, bellicose demons manning the concierge's booth here in aisle 8, or the wild wild west.