Thank you,

thank you, thank you tenement city, blotting up the water with your concrete shoulders, the cataracts of blue-curtained windows mysterious and blind.

Thank you for the life constantly peering out from behind your edges, the beetles of people, the ringed tails of arguments crawling up curtains, I'm certain I'll never press against a window simply for the cold. The trust is that you'll always be cruel. The truth is that I never bought binoculars, I've spent hours fucking over the side of a cliff in San Francisco, and I have never thrown a penny into the Grand Canyon, and I have never heard the faint puff of it jacknifing to rest upon a thousand others, the pile of millions, copper dinosaur bones. We'll call it an Indian savings account when we find it.

How much money is buried and slowly becoming fuel, or diamonds, or worm food, or worms? This city is worms standing still, worms at attention, worm soldiers, waiting a thousand years and folding slowly so as not to attract...attention? Birds? What kind of bird descends screaming on a city of worms?

Wings are red engines, the hard hungry beaks of falcons for eyes, the instincts of an electric bat, moving blind, dropping patterns of shadow on the city. Are these eggs bombs, is this bird some movie-written war? When can we stop predicting? How vicious would a bluejay be with a hundred foot wingspan? Can instinct be vicious? There are three different types of murder.

Prediction is the source of fear.

I have no thought but thank you worms, thank you birds for waiting. And keep traveling. You'll be harder to catch.

Thank you San Diego, for being something I haven't seen.

cara