The Futurists across the street have stopped working their jackhammers into the asphalt.
There is only night outside.
The plastic tarp on the elephant skeleton across the street is sticking out at a ninety-degree-angle
with the wing blowing
a constant sheet of uncooked short-grain rice at my bedroom window.
Denis Johnson plays guitar on the corner for the paparazzi.
I sit at the Ming dynasty palace I have constructed out of the loose papers on my desk.
My cat leaps up to the looseleaf north tower
and looks outside at nothing.