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"a frame of useless limbs,
what can make good all the bad that's been done?”

I have absolutely no idea where to start.

Walt Whitman noticed me today, finally
walked up and said hello as if we'd been friends for years
I played it cool and asked slyly "Yes...what's your name again?"
Then, walking back outside with my plastic bag of fruit and pretzels,
juice in my left hand,
I felt a little bad about the whole thing.

The future comes dirty, nate, don't you forget that. The future comes screaming and shattered, fragmented, howling through midnight cobblestone streets, skittering over rooftops, pressing up against waxing windows, hanging in a haze over frosted fields, seeping through tightly planted forests and neighborhoods, taking a holding pattern until morning. The future comes through cracks in the pavement, manhole covers, ventilation ducts, chimneys and fire escapes, a draft from underneath the front door chills your sleeping mind and you wake up to tomorrow. The future comes unapproachable. The future comes dirty. The future comes.

Phone calls ripple through the apartment all day and most of the night. The ringing brings a stomping to the living room, a quick check to see if it's okay and a hesitant answer. "Hello?" The answer, as always, is a question. "Hello?" The answering machine holds more questions than answers. "When can you be there?" "Can you pick up a shift?" "Could you give me a call?" "What's going on tomorrow?" Tomorrow. Hmmph. I don't believe in it.

What about today? Another question. (Squealing of tires on college avenue.) Today we should...I don't know. Maybe we'll get a movie. I should go and see scott, I always come away from that with a new idea. Pirates who seek out and destroy information. A trainyard adventure filled with blackberries and industrial art, billboard perch within reach. A sing-a-long, campfire included, fueled by green kool-aid and storytelling. "A new standard by which to measure infamy" Bottled orange crush on a Sunday night, lightning bugs and blue-strobed phones filling the arb with a ghostly insect presence. Pineapple with beef served over used books and long, long train-track walks into the wasteland, pretty Priscilla - keeping watch with artistically-engineered grace.

Stepping stones thrown,
broken toe bones,
tripping drives home.

--walking through your walls
feeling with my hands
noticed we were friends
stealing for our sins
... instead of asking why?
dream yourself inside ...

--fell short of my past
never made it to my best
sleeping in the rain
(spin the dime again)
tomorrow is the plan
this world will never end
... instead of asking why?
dream yourself nice try ...

you can have my world
we can trade our lives
you can be my guide
I can be your eyes
... instead of asking why?
dream yourself goodbye ...

I have to figure out what's going on ...

I should call my grandmother.

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