I can’t make it. We’re staying in.

A nutcase with an exploding cigar spins around saying, I’ve been watching you.

I spent decades as a stealth pathologist performing autopsies on ‘live people.’ 
My relationships are mostly strung out on sofa sectionals of pulverized dots —
He tells me I know this place better than my own bedroom, seeing he knows what I mean.

I can’t make it.

New wilderness tracing a wistful landscape, hum-vacuumed, cuddling escalations in body movement, ledgers of age. Pummeling brilliance lives on in a pretty good phrase, a single word, and it always has, fudging abasement in clean confinement serving a purpose within supernumerary states of being (confined).