Love. The Black Hook. The Spear Singing

I Work Really Out Of Mythology, So Often I Work Out Of A Story That Has Remained Lodged Inside Somehow, Or I Work Out Of History, You Know, Out Of A Sense Of Historical Inevitability With Characters.

This So Gnawed At Him On Some Nights That He Lay Awake Wondering Just How Many Unknown And Similarly Inconsequential Accidents And Bits Of Happenstance Were At This Moment Occurring Or Failing To Occur In Order To Ensure He Took His Next Breath, And The Next.

Cold Sinks In, There To Stay. And People, They'll Leave You, Sure. There's No Return To What Was And No Way Back. There's Just Emptiness All Around, And You In It, Like Singing Up From The Bottom Of A Well, Like Nothing Else, Until You Harm Yourself, Until You Are A Mad Dog Biting Yourself For Sympathy. Because There Is No Relenting.

By The Time I Was Done With The Car It Looked Worse Than Any Typical Indian Car That Has Been Driven All Its Life On Reservation Roads, Which They Always Say Are Like Government Promises - Full Of Holes.

You See I Thought Love Got Easier Over The Years So It Didn't Hurt So Bad When It Hurt, Or Feel So Good When It Felt Good. I Thought It Smoothed Out And Old People Hardly Noticed It. I Thought It Curled Up And Died, I Guess. Now I Saw It Rear Up Like A Whip And Lash.