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 emerges grandly
from the foot 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
not ever. I don’t
want to watch
another senate
hearing. I want
to survive solely
as an artist (and
this may be the
only time since
