the crickets have escaped the tarantula cage. this monday is damned by a plague of locusts. lacking the wherewithal to do anything about it, i use every glass jar in the house to trap each one where i catch him, suspending them in their ready-legged stances. the rooms are adorned now by small and large globes of glass that catch the light. chirping noises fill the house.

out on a 24' sailboat in the san francisco bay, casting crescent shaped shadows in the filtered light. celestial shifting, my organs realign and cast my weight in a new way over my skeleton. climbing in the morning, gold blazing through the skylights in blinding rays, jeff buckley is black honey hallelujah, my bones become hollow