09.Feb.2003

welcome home. unfortunately.

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in another life when we are both cats

I absconded to Dee's new place for the weekend and delighted in Gabriel Byrne movies, but this is not why you're here. In fact, I have no idea why you're here at all.

His balcony overlooks a sleeping town, where on this side, Oklahoma City blends quietly to English motifs. Snow-covered town-houses severely adjacent to one another and I have a cigarette underneath the orange-snow-sky on this balcony and celebrate toxins in the only manner I know how. I return here and no one has anything positive to tell me.

This unnerves me.

I bought two six-packs of Bacardi Silver and polished them both on Friday night, under the great influence of all things stereotypically alcoholic and seemingly vampiric. I fell asleep drunkenly on the floor, amidst a mass of coverlets, and dreamed of Agnew. California. The earth from the heavens. Unwavering infatuations with Palos Verdes from the very top of the violence.

I don't need to convince myself I can fly. This is because I can fly.

In my dreams I am miles from here in a different skin; in my dreams I answer to different names. In my dreams I am peaceful and there is nothing incomplete about the stillness.

This ubiquitous geography of my subconscious knows how to please.

Hi, Davey.

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time & machine