I hear the crash of the avalanche. Some keep time to its rhythm, there's a lot to do before it hits. I catch the swaying of snowflakes. I can hear the roar of the wind. Before they found benzene rings in the well, I could say who had broken a whole in the oil rig. Some found themselves staring at their faces, picking their destinies away, smoking themselves into a methamphetamine oblivion, until they cleaned the skin off of their faces. I hear the submarines starting in the South Fork, God's Riffle is under, so don't try to join them. Some speak until their lips are the color of bruises, some never speak because they're afraid of finding bruises trapped in their hair. America is spending in darkness. Knowing in foul tradition. Burning at the testicles, and calling in sick. Go home to Wyoming, drink your nuclear family into a white courtroom with a fickle jury of out-of-towners. Be on your best most calm behavior. The denim is up in the air, the snow is coming in shingles, the grizzlies and black bears are choosing which young they ought to hide.

I hear the cruelness of amphetamine users, through and through. You don't want to know them, I don't- I doctor up my circumstances so I don't drive ourselves crazy observing and swerving up and down and off the road. I am the Prince of Bell-Air. I keep my pockets oozing with four colors of black and nothing darker. Something is sharpening the beats of a generation, and no one is calling. Where are my friends in the darkness? I can hear their sides when they cough, but there is nothing like laughing in  glitter, aside from the wildness and toil of this dusk.