the gray robe that wraps this morning will burn off in a few hours. the so-called usual murders and muggings are taking place in the city center and down the street. tea, light stretching, the early alarm still ringing behind my ears with no noise to dispel it save for the incessant chirping of unimaginative birds-- petty vandalism crowned with armed violence. they call it a hotbed of criminal activity, we call it home. the light comes in these windows nicely, the protesters are fractious and argue between themselves, the law disperses them with billy clubs and tear gas. a man falls fault of a well aimed bullet to the head at five o'clock in the afternoon, when the rest of us are rolling up our sleeves to come home from work, when the grandmothers are watching the second hand crest the apex of the clock's face and have the ice already in the highball glasses...

woken in the middle of a dream so distant, good enough to twist the waking. the fantasy world melts off with the fog and the soft smell of the ocean that climbs up from the bay. devin sleeps, then wakes, then sleeps....the paperwork is digitized so as not to gather beneath my elbows and overtake my desk. jacob and kevin have cleaned the kitchen after their vegetarian poutine making spree, they stir on the other side of the wall--

five am voodoo santo, i'm too tired to register. a kiss on the back that doesn't resonate, he says "you can't feel anything, do you see this dagger of flame. you get what you want, but never get what you want. who crippled your mind, did your father do that to you?"