Or pieces of it anyway. The
pain in my lower back and
the spike driven through
the back of my neck (I
think it’s been driven be
tween my spine and my
throat, if that is even
possible). It sounds
like it’s raining, this
through the one open
window (I’ve only two)
that rises above my
portable kitchen, is
hidden behind the
big television that
rises from the foot
end of my bed. I
don’t want The
Late Show to end,
not ever. I don’t
want to watch
another senate
hearing. I want to
survive solely as an
artist (and this may
artist (and this may
be the only time
since becoming one
that I have ever
had this compulsion).
