It’s like reading over the shoulder of the flannel in front of you on the only bus left in town that you can ride 20 blocks for free, the three sentences, page number and title that allow you to put together that this book is about Miles Davis, and this book, MAN, is important. It’s seeing the simmering patter of old rain and counting down the seconds until a drop hits you, as if for some reason it’s going to change everything, and it doesn’t, it’s not raining anymore, that was just old dirty water you saw, from this afternoon, from earlier before it all happened, catching the small lights in the tunnel. It’s like seeing the floral print of the grandma skirt you got for a dollar on the side of the escalator turn into Monte and then slowly enveloped by the sharp steps, like a crocodile and limbs. It’s rushing, still waiting for the sky to spit, head turned backward wondering if the Pilipino guy behind you has baggy clothes to hide the 9mil and drugs in his pockets. But I’m not racist, man, my dad is black! And then finally, approaching the building built over and over again, too old to speak, atheistic architecture amnesia, seeing Dan, the dad playing door guy in the barred window, mind fucking and playing over and over again my “hey how is your night going”, I realize I do not ask him this enough but answer when he asks me, but his head is down, his head is down and his hands are scribbling like a jack off, like I wish that my hands would scribble. First floor, breath, second floor, this isn’t so bad, third floor, why am I scared of elevators? Turn the key and the bed is made. I have to write. I just came up with the best thing. I’ll be in the bathroom. Are you okay? Of course I am okay, I just need to write. Can I barrow a cigarette, and the old door, too old to screech, shuts for the first time. Slam. I need a lighter. Open. Light. Toss. Shut, nope. Shut again, nope. SHUT. Light. Write. I am ash-ing on an old soap bar, jasmine, my ass.