14/16

Fucking bitches.  This is bullshit.

Except Mabel.  She is most definitely not bullshit.

 Holy sweet fuck, god damn bourbon.  The world is bouncing and the bullshit surrounds.  Out on the desert terraces, ancient beds of riverbed history–gone forever, solid gone–the coyotes yelp and scream out their demon song and Mabel pops tall and stares into the dark.  Over the cliffs, the first silver light of the moon looms and I know. 

My father once told me that when you had the Spirit, you would know that you know that you know.  Here in the dark and cold, I do know that I know, but the edges of the thought are flaking off, like the way a woman leaves the room and takes the light with her. 

And I know that I know.

That justice is not and that the universe proceeds in the darkness on the face of the deep of equity.  Some days I am accessible. 

Others I am drunk.  There is no truth in what words proceed out of the mouth of one person I know.  I wonder if they know that?  But I don’t worry it.  I have bourbon.  And Mabel.