06.01.06, Late p.m.

I hear low rumbles of distant thunder. The dog’s chain across the street dragging across his driveway. Breeze through maples. The stereo inside peeking random passages from Dylan, The Kinks, Van Morrison, Robert Earl Keen, and Willie Nelson.

I see night lightning above the trees flash-bulbing my navy blue sky. Wisps of cigar smoke. A week’s worth of unread City Papers. A near empty (beckoning) highball glass.

I want financial security. To feel the rain on my face. To be as calm on the inside as I project on the outside. To share a quiet drink and unspoken conversation with my buddy, K. To go to a poetry reading. To resurrect Bukowski for a single fractured evening.

I need to feel the flesh of another for an hour—maybe two. To travel. To drive nowhere with the sunroof open and get lost. To disappear—just for awhile. To see some guy with a guitar in a near empty barroom. To Sleep 24 uninterrupted hours. To stop thinking so much. To touch the Gulf of Mexico again. To go to a baseball game. To need.