Into the countryside I sneak. So glad for the fresh air, gathering it and saving oxygen in my lungs for later on, for my return into the city, where I morph into a harder, tobacco stained, caffeine stained spot melting in the rest of the pot, a spot there in the midst of the chaos, body corpuscle, limiting myself within the confines of my chosen professional surroundings. But, the countryside I meet, step off the train, galvanized, justiied, tranquil - stealing the tranquility, melding and bartering, compromising the peace with a city dwelling blurb on the face, city dwelling blot, clouding the air a little, sunglass-clad, perfume clad, Luis Vitton in hand, heading for the little school in the wooded shade, the animals move aside, frightened at the high heels clicking along the small stones leading from the access parking lot to the blot in the field, inside which people are drawing and painting their impressions of the human form, now disrobed and back to nature, Luis Vitton and Ray Bans aside, conglomeration, overtaking, symbiosis, I don't think so.

We're studying the body today, people pay close attention to your creator, your destroyer, watch the foreshortening, how you bend at the knee, how you collapse under the pressure of your own creation, too big a brain, too fast a speed, for your innards, your guts and intestines, the primitives - they haven't yet caught up with the big machine. Too fast we enter into the countryside, our bodies in the lurch, our brains send the birds flying aside, critters scatter, ice melts at the power, the great capacity of the fast Brain. Here comes the distant runner, bounding through, muscles glimmering, sweat flying, into the still forest, melting, building up the self to join with creation, to die. Building up to die, breath waning, evaporating into the mist, guts melting and no one knows dying off in the forest it takes over, takes back the breath, fresh air dominating, oxygen regaining over carbon monoxide, caffeine, steroids, speed, substance abuse, heroine contamination. Stop Contaminating Yourself! She cried, but she was yelling it at me from the window of her 10 story 3rd avenue apartment building in the smack dab middle of Manhattan's lower East Side. I laugh at the irony, sip a bit of coffee with cream and sugar, and lope off to the ball park. . . . . .