this is the heart of the wasteland, i think.  i am surrounded by wreckage --
three empty cases of beer, a large steel cannister of sapporo, newspaper, food
bits, notebooks, clothing, some full beers, and my spiff boots with the condom
pockets  empty beer bottles populate every open surface.  out the window i can
see that the side of the dorm facing me knows no sunlight, but i cannot yet see
rain.  wreckage is the maxim for the season, as i see people come and go and
merge and flow -- leaving behind wreckage.  in the halls, empty boxes from a
student suspended for grades, and boxes left by a parent who labored for days
in his daughter's room (she wasn't around most of the time), who, if he labors
like mine, do it out of some twisted guilt.  wreckage in the fifteen bottlecaps
i bounced off of the bathroom door.  wreckage in a bloody punched-out
windowpane, the result of too much explosive anger lubricated with too much
milwaukee's beast.  more than that, we are the detritus...we are those
unwanting to come back but not wanting to be "home" and hating the indecision. 
outside rain washes the desert walls...
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