Every public bathroom is an opportunity for terror. I’m talking the kind where you get a whole room. Lock on the door. But maybe you’re bolting so fast you forget to bolt. Maybe the lock doesn’t work. So you find yourself saying “Wait, wait, occupied, hang on” but it’s always too timid or too late. I don’t mean for this to be a stand-up routine. Some goof like Dane Cook, he could ape this pretty good. Do something with one leg in the air and the microphone in a weird tuck. Then we’d laugh together in the audience, like you know me and I know you, some big splatter of yeah! That’s not how I mean. What I mean is terror. We’re none of us the same. We’re vulnerable at different grooves. We’re working with idiosyncratic equipment. Another kind of terror is when I see the bus driver looking at me in his mirror. Another kind of terror is when you buy the last of something I want. Why do you keep doing that? Why won’t you look at me?

Be with your mind. I’m talking meditative practice. Every feeling should be the strongest. For example, I used to see these guys riding motorcycles in t-shirts. Get passed by ‘em. Seaming two lanes of traffic. And it’s beautiful to watch the way a cotton tee blusters at the pace of the freeway. Big patch of back skin exposed. And I remember always being shocked by that back skin, even though I see ‘em all the time. Weekend hoggers, breezy on their toys. But no matter how many I saw, I was always whoa. Now that I’m being with my mind, though, I see that all beauty’s the student of beauty before it. All beauty stands before the world, you might say. All I’m saying is that surprise is fine, don’t lemme jerk you around, but try being with your mind. Like what if those ads on buses for TV shows didn’t have the time or channel. Not even the name of the show, even. Nothing but the hook. The woman with a blowtorch.

Well, I’m not so much a mobile person. Gotta roll along in this contraption. As such, I do my work from home. My love, she’s my eyes and ears. She goes to dialysis three times a week. I cook for her. For a while I saw these buffalos on the hills above our property. Very still. First a comfort, majesty in such repose. But then it bugged me, right? Move, you buffalos! Hop to! Finally I tell my wife, go scope these beasts. See what stalls them. She tucks her blouse in her skirt. Heads off. Calls me on the cell. “Honey,” she says. “They’re bushes. Not buffalos. Bushaloes!” And she titters like she’s slid a mint under my tongue. But I felt sick is what I felt. First the world has to close itself off, then it has to trick me? Bullshit. Bushaloes my ass. Gimme bison. Get me up there.