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Foreshadows approach, Foreshadows draw their guns, Foreshadows draw some blood. They come breathing fire and sweating bullets. Its like the time on the hair of your wrist, it’s never right and has never been. You get into the swing of things. As soon as you’re able to bring a new life out of the cave you realize you just sent the last canary in. You took your time to catch that canary, that sacrifice, that poison gas detective. Give the cage a look and behind those yellow feathers, lies a heart as still as the coal you are pulling out of the womb of this great beast. Alternate fuel. Give it all up and complain to a senator, the secretary will be glad to open your letter, and don’t worry she has a full draw of his photo, pre-autographed, ready to ship out across the great amber waves, she is trained to know his signature, his nature is another thing altogether. I look back at the watch at the end of my wrist.

“How long was I out for?” The man across from me in the waiting room stuffs his head back into this magazine and I can see by his cheap shoes and second rate suit that we are both from the same tailor. His father was much like mine a hard working class hero and by the look of his hands, which are cracked and have traces of dried blood. He just got off a shift, and will most likely be working over time this winter. The sickness comes back over me I remember racing at what felt like 200mph on the Taconic the Catatonic Parkway just trying to make it into the cave, the coalmine, I Yell “ Headlamps and Hardhats” lucky it was a monologue. I see headlights facing my direction. I recall the woman who recently ignored the “DO NOT ENTER” signs lining the road before you do the dangerous deed of driving head on. I almost swerve off the road. I run over those bumps that wake sleeping commuters. The culprit was a state trooper gaining prime position to pull over 3 in the morning drunks. I was pulled over” License and Registration” not drunk I was not worth the paperwork “ Have a nice night” He turns off his lights and pulls away. Sir? can I get you something can I reach into my pocket to offer you “Wait was I out again, For how long” This time I look to the nurse behind the counter I can just barely see her glasses and the top of her grey head. She calls my name and I get up and walk through the door the smell of band-aids will be on me for months. The long hallway is lit up only by the light of the far window. The power line outside is filled with pigeons and high-tops. Then the nurse calls from behind “Last door on the left”. “ I heard you” the closer I get to the window I realize that I am currently running faster and faster and faster. The nurse yells, Her breath smells of Menopause and Licorice. I can’t bother with her anymore I already signed my name on the arrival sheet I would have stolen the pen but it was chained down. I hope my insurance covers this. Everything slows down for me, but I’m sure to the patients waiting in the other rooms “Say AHH” in the hall I was a 200mph flash of brilliant black wool topcoat. I hold my hands out and it’s never been this easy to break through. My hands are cut up like my hands were in a blender on frappe, I am leaking I am a slave to gravity. I insert myself then fly into the cityscape, it looked like when kids scare birds in the park. The flew not in fear but in habit. 15 stories and all of them have something to say. The clothes don’t hang anymore. The city outlawed drying your cloths in public. So I guess I can be seen from all angles this time my clammy hands are flapping and my mouth is dry and I can’t help but think of Newton. “Wait What, How long was I out?” I look across the blanket into her eyes she must have been a Puma in her past life a Lynx. She tilts her shades down and says, “You were dreaming again” She says it so matter of factly because she has been saying the same thing for 10 years. I scratch my head and my face is covered in sweat she hands me a wet towel and a bottle of Coke. Then she kisses my forehead, smiles and her red lipstick is on one of her teeth but I won’t say a God damn thing there’s no sport in spitting on a Van Gogh.