Deadly Drought

When you're a drunk you're more afraid of running out or being forced to quit than you are blizzards, earthquakes, hurricanes, floods, forest fires, mudslides, lightning storms or volcanoes. (Terrorist attacks are horrifying but mostly because they can make the price of gas jump up, leaving you with less doe for your swimming pool of cold barley soup). You eat crackers for supper alone at three in the morning. You become a wolf spider wandering moonlight. You interrupt yourself a lot when you're talking about the people at work. When you doze on the couch, your nightmares give off a scent like dry leaves smoldering . . . you wake up and watch an hour-long infomercial---a redheaded housewife pushing a shiny purple steam cleaner at the speed of her pills---and think of how you would at least be so kind as to eat the gal from the inside out before pushing her off the earth's edge. You're truly happy and motivated. Your beer's never given time to go flat. Or evaporate.

spring cleaning . . .

he sweeps the garage

into vast expanses