It is a dreary, damnable November night when my vote and I sit apprehensively in our recliners, watching the returns come in. The horror: midwestern red comes in much faster than midwestern blue, our senators are falling; the water surrounding our pretty liberal islands is rising and its sharks are growing legs. My vote goes out for a walk, it needs to assess the scope of the disaster and consider its options. Of course, a good number of walks terminate in bars, and given that night's horror, drinking is inevitable.

[to read Installment Two, click here.]

the lines on my fingers
the holes in your nose
freckles in your eyes
sand and ocean poetry

late night movies
a baby's hand on his grandfathers' fingers
eh
crap piss snot

20 ways up
and a million different directions to go
you and me babe we'll do it all

crap piss snot
start over
seed, from the
seed

the lines on my fingers
the holes in your nose
sometimes we look at each other
eh
a million different directions to go
seed from the seed
million directions to go

The beauty of "the box" is its traditional construct of safety and security, and therefore peace of mind, for those who retreat there... not the traditional box, though some shapes, colors, sounds may comfort us similarly. The difficulty is that there seems to be this innate sense by those dwelling in theirs that it should be all inclusive. Recruitment of "outsiders" seemingly becomes an integral part of physical, emotional and spiritual wholeness. However, the stress of the untoward conscription -- precludes appreciation for the perfect individual sanctuary which "the box" affords.

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