I have Van singing to me.

Back to Sunday. First the night, and then the morning.Waiting for deliveries in the kitchen, sending pepperonis frisbee through hot greasy air, I see high schoolers with bright fresh faces full of hope and promise of escape. Snarfing bland heavy pizza, fries, burgers. Across the glass in the dining room. All here for food, not money. I'm here for both. Don't they like football?

I go to restaurants alone. Everybody else has company. I bring books instead. I was at the Omega on Sunday morning at three. I needed an omelette after the six-pack, as well as hot decaf of course. Twenty-four hour place. Barhoppers and nightclubbers in leather and glitter making hubbub, a cacophony of giggles, murmurs, clinks and clatters. The corners of my eyes caught curious glances, moments of attention. I studiously avoided eye contact. They are nightlife. I am nolife. I need to paint Peace Is Patriotic on my army jacket. I'm tired of being mistaken for a Republican, despite the good tips from upstanding churchgoing suburbanites. I got home and opened a seventh, but beer tastes bad after I eat, so I poured it through a totem pole of dishes encrusted with salmon and basmati.

When the sun rose, I slept.

Back again the night, after work. I got to see the fourth quarter.

I won a hundred on football squares. A wiser fool would save it. I think I'll buy some coke to celebrate unemployment. A last hurrah. Or a first volley of self-inflicted destruction. Creativity counts. When the powder blows away, a whiskey bath to make a crash. Then a day of ragged breath, brutal despression and involuntary shivering under many blankets. Heads and tails.

Letting go.
4:33 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm