every time I put a bottle down onto the glass top table the adherent acoustic guitar reverberates an open chord and desires to be played in a way that allows for tension and release and the aggravated assault of forgotten hymnals when god was lost and the strings are crisp and the setting is just so. only a slight puncture wound on the palm of the left hand from hopping the catholic cemetery fence well after the dead of night, the resting hours aside from the flapping of flags and an ominous presence in the wind through the cemetery trees, many of them older than the bodies buried and so roots are pulling sustenance from the corpses of one hundred year dead catholics and the cemetery itself is older than the atomic bomb and other fodder, the most striking night grave found was a young man of 19 who died of unforeseen causes but is now “in the arms of god” and I hope he breaks free to live his own life in the end. I went up there to imagine what it must be to feel the presence of a significant “other” through the reeds, so to speak, through the willows, so to creak, through the eaves, if you please, and lacking the sacrilege I felt might happen with the black n’ mild night time desiccation of graves but not that at all because there was no other presence but the wind and now only the fang-clacking yawn of an old cat and the type of the keyboard, the itch and the pull of a hundred year old dead mother whose spawn have gone and done and gone and done for two or three generations and the claws sinking deeper into my wrist, the claws of the old lonely cat, and I wonder if he senses his old dead original owner, my own estimate, having been abandoned after six years of feline services and then again after six months and there most be catholic influence on this one. Black waving flags and the 45th street viaduct is always in view of the dead. Those boys with the multiple 24 racks of pbr included. And so with myself.