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bricolage
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if i don't do something that involves leaving my house in a day i feel as if i don't exist. so sometimes after dark i find myself not existing, looking out of the upstairs window at the sleepy little houses.
so at one a.m. i find myself leaving home on foot. the neighborhood is quaint but in the quiet the houses all look like mansions. no lights on an entire street. where are the parties. where are the sacrifices?
airplanes above full of sleepy passengers. i at first mistake them for shifting stars, something intriguing, science fiction like.
lay down in a yard illuminated by streetlights. yellowdead grass now golden. i don't know what i am doing. a lady comes outside and asks what i am doing. she asks me if i am drunk. i tell her that her flies must be on the wrong wall. i tell her the dog is walking me.
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050115
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