Natoma: wolf-dog, white sky with black birds, gold domed roof on the boarded up church, still sick this morning, throat-stuck, swampy green tea and rain like a shaken gourd. This month: each week a dinner party and ten, twelve hours on airplanes. Los Angeles hotels and San Francisco apartments and Brooklyn skyline on film. Documentary crew takes me home from La Guardia, follows me into my tired bedroom where I say: why did I agree to this? What do you want? Pour bourbon on a cough and tuck me into a real bed. Please and thank you. Tonight in the movie theater, teen girls squeal and text while teams vampire and wolf remove their t-shirts. Tonight in the boy bar, men show off their muscles and beards. We sit in the truck seat behind the tip bar and tell stories about cockroaches, mice, winter. What we hate: “leverage”, “period”. What we like: “nomenclature”, “melancholy”, “cunt”.