Storerooms of Heaven
"The equinox is all mud. Mottled tracks of it half-frozen in the fields. Streaks of the stuff basted over the roads. If you weren’t careful, a tire could catch some and you’d might as well be on ice. It’s some fuck-early time and I drive on through the mud of my places, sure on the road and nothing else for certain."
On the death of
"all those sneezes and shouts, the snatches of crazy
music written on the sides of tacos, the soup kitchen
mumbles and junk tumors, the noises set adrift
into the vortex: none of this ever allowed you
to unstrap your ego and let it swing..."