The seasons were dismantling. One rolled itself across the northeast like a thick, spiced dough. It inhaled and leaves were caught in its bite. It whispered an earthy perfume and sang an antiquated lullaby of sleep and death. There was something horribly gorgeous in its offering. The harvest, the fallen seeds and nuts, the apples and pumpkins were surrendered to the creatures that tucked themselves fatly into holes and nests and caves. Autumn was a martyr. It was red, orange, yellow, and brown, a fire-burst fading fast. It was a finale - the curtain falling. The last note played before a long rest. Then there was ice.

No the universe distilled is no mirror. And we are no distillate of any brew. Hinges of space break like the hyperflexed jaw. A mouth gaping at its own sound and genius. Words floating off like a riot dispersing.

Is it a sickness to see no obstacle? Prometheus a fountainhead a horror. What filters we've grown in our eyes and heads. All creatures fair game to our arrogance. Diversity nulled in the shadow of West.

It seems that no green can get through to the heart. It seems we've forgotten just when we were smart. It seems that the future is falling apart. Was civilization a fluke from the start? 

I have no home here. My home will be in the dirt. My home will send the green,soft infant arms of seeds up to break the surface, unlike this decietful city. My home will be quiet minerals, and slow. I like the idea of a slow home.

In a taxi at four in the morning again. On my way to thirty-fourth street I see a man in tan shorts and a white polo shirt standing with his arms inside the torso and his head tucked partially below the collar. He has no shoes on, just filthy, white athletic socks. He is standing in a large entranceway to an apartment building to shield himself from the bitter wind. It is about twenty-two degrees. He must have gotten locked out. Kicked out. I would have stopped and helped if... I should have stopped and helped. Offered to make a call, something. I didn't though. Down through the midtown tunnel then over the Pulaski bridge into Greenpoint. I notice some billboards have changed. Billboards larger than any flag that any country has ever raised.

I have a craving for seaweed and wild rice with sesame oil.

The taxi driver is sleepy and I can see his eyes in the rear view mirror straining to stay open - the lids like elevator doors, like subway car doors, slowy  shutting, then bursting open again, startled. He runs almost every stop sign. I should say something, but I don't. He falls asleep at the next light, and somehow I arrive safely.

Tonight I feel as though I'm riding a monorail through the exhibit of life at some theme-park where there is no cause for alarm. Just cruise along and observe through the glass, not touching the displays. Is this some form of mutilated faith?

While leaving the cab, I find a wallet full of credit cards on the seat. I think about the computer I want, the couch I could get, and the exact sewer I would throw it down when I am done with it. Instead, I call the woman and tell her. She is tired and thankful. I say that I was tempted to use them, but decided against it. She laughs, thinking I was joking.

The puffy, pink man with white hair and a star-spangled tie became impatient. "I don't know if you're jurors or terrorists, so if you don't turn off your cell phones, you'll be dealing with Homeland Security."

I laughed out loud, trying the extrapolation on like a four-fingered glove. It just didn't fit. It was a desperate threat sent into a room full of tired, pissed-off people who'd been called in on this frigid, snowy morning.

The case was about a nose job. The prosecution wants malpractice, the defense claims unpreventable complication. I claim that I don't give a crap about some woman who didn't like the way Mother Nature molded her nose and now has sinus damage. Not enough, at least, to lose six days of pay in exchange for influence over the financial fate of a plastic surgeon and his disgruntled patient who are furthering the cycle of unrealistic standards of beauty.

The place was like a run-down high school. It smelled of musty textbooks, floor cleaner, and ancient heaters. Lots of old white men scurried around in khaki overcoats. There was a woman who seemed to be waiting for her hearing. She made the sound of shooting a snot-rocket about every fifteen seconds. I actually timed it while I was eating lentil salad during the lunch break.

I was not selected as a juror. I was partially insulted, but mostly glad. Initially, when asked, I had told them I was an artist, filmmaker, and environmentalist, and that I thought plastic surgery is socially degrading. I don't think they liked my nose-ring or tattoos either.

The future smells like sulfer, like egg salad. Like the hot guts have come up through the cracks. The future sags, bruised as a rotten plum, as ripe as the Devil's cum. Split down the center. A cracked coconut.

What strength is left? Enough to type, to flip a switch, to press a button, to dial. Not enough to survive -  to dig a root, to cross a plain, to tear into raw flesh.

A barnicle, an apple pit. A carnival? - a throat is slit.