I've been considering my strange blood-time. Every thing was so much harder and longer for my mother, who decided never to wait for anybody. It was survival, while my dad could afford to wait by the road for the right ride.

Here are the tracks I've laid from the latest weeks; they read like thick repitition and slum drum.

"look at us. playing back against our own bit tongues. Two-bit, lock-pick pornography. this is how we sell ourselves. how many times have i proffered my body as a tool of keeping it all wrapped-up, packed-up and choked up in that satin? I have to promise not to become red and rusty and ultimatly cold when no-one comes to wrap my waist" (so they say of race and sex).          "These hills and trains are supposed to roll through my blood at this thrummm. My god. The spirit has moved me, this time south of the Mason-Dixon" (I have been there).        "Call me whore. Debased, free-base. Get back in line! I feel like I've been crucified on clock hands. What I found under my tongue: 'It's sorta like I been laid bare o'er those hills, like my body's been broken open and now my viscera's spilt accross the land.'

Cross me. Mount me. Mine Me."

If that ain't no divine shadow, I don't know what is.