He busts everything he touches and fills the empty space with accidents. He holds all the ragged power coiled in the muscles of a mutt. He feeds on flesh and asphalt, drunk with spectacle, choosing his heresies. He says we have no future, the present won't stay put and the past changes with every memory lost to the heat death of the universe. He is that which moves. He's doing lifelong research on gravity. He won't even bother to lie grace into his stumblings and stains, but revels in disheveled ecstasy. I cannot cease to stare but see his dusty pathless plains and his murders from a distance, for now his dreamwork scaffolds my skull as he renovates the house of reason, tearing out a wire here (I came home and found him shredding my orchids) drilling holes in the drywall there (he ripped pages from my dictionary to paper over the windows) Whistling his night's folk-song and bending the means to make ends meet, he's built a room for praying and a room for fucking. He's left us two no room to breathe.