He is not sitting on a bus packed across the aisles on his second part of his ride home. It is not another cool evening in San Francisco. He will not eat spaghetti in an hour or so before his small t.v and then call his friends to share anecdotes of their jobs that mean as much as a pair of socks or shoelaces and will see if the bitterness can stay in check when books or writing comes up. There are not a dozen or so notebooks of thwarted ideas for conceptual work, for experimental music and odd hybids that will never be made. The notebooks spill from a non-existent dresser with
a dent on the second drawer found on some illusory unborn corner on a Sunday...all forever to float like astronauts untethered.
He does not hate the noises of the city at night, which are not to him like the chassis of a car with all the pretty glass and upholstery removed, not at all tied to a life he sees as just the dull momentum onward, the little explosions.
photo of the pile of stories written about city transit and downtown mar 07
view out of the bus window toward the stop light as drawn by his friend who also never left