If you leave orange juice in the fridge too long it produces a mildly acoholic concoction not unpleasant to drink.
Or maybe I should say, If you leave it long enough.
Eventually, I shall cover the walls of my cave-like abode entirely with art I've been making lately. Then it will no longer be apparent that the place needs a paint job.
I'll stand on my head and write poems until I turn blue, and see if I get a ticket for my trouble.
I'll ride the lite rail from end to end and back again on a single $3.50 day pass and see now many miles I can cover.
How many strange and lovely people I can meet.
But I can't do it today.

Poem:

When I lunge for you
in some dark spot
I don't want discussion in fact
I don't want words.

Only to eat and drink
you raw, plucking
hair splashing wine
pouring basting and drowning
each noble breast, your nates
like polished unmade bread
suspended
on writhing bones.

********************

I can see that it's time to get a little fanatical.
Up to now I've been keeping kind of a low profile in Sacramento.
By the time I left Arcata, I was #1 on the Shit List of every pompous ass in town.
Here I've accomplished nothing of the sort.
It bugs me. What happened to the fire, to the piss and vinegar, to the no-holds-barred mr. toughguy asskicker who used to wade through town like a bull elk through the pansies, underwear and clothesline wrapped around his horns?
Do I even have horns anymore?
Looks like a bald spot.
Need to sharpen the points a little, catch hold of the current, and spank the muse.
It's all very clear to me.