–for Nick Traenkner There is alcohol in me tonight, alcohol and yes I have breathed in smoke and breathed it back out out to you surrounded by words unctuous, bombastic, evangelical. Dress me in horse hair, the hair what was once a horse and a belt of leather from what was once a cow so costumed words take on legitimacy or invest me in silks as the new pope of continual omnipotent excess. The dirt of life is death death death! The dirt of life is the fruit of death. The dirt of life is a scientific experiment where you tread on wheels while I spume and wrack at you, your bare feet hatched with the turning tide. Proud in persistence. I will talk until you listen.