Digging through past archives, I found this still from The Void Project. It turned into a cram session, what this image meant, what it appeared to mean – what actually occurred on that day. There were other moments ― past the fence rows of America, clogged with garbage, that never kept anyone out; under the cavernous bridge where my soul was drained I plunged outward, with a homeless stare, onto the dusty sidewalks of Lawndale, to the racks behind a row of plumbers with the sound of cheap keyboards and low tones as in a morgue. The men were in good spirits, lively and offering advice, thankful, open like farmers, masons, they knew the ground, they knew what they were.
My old parts couldn’t be matched. I walked further down Inglewood, the stones like galaxies pulled to the gutter, the wind tapping against an abandoned sign where the crows gather. In the deep, cool grass a nesting place.