Possum Pouch

Black Stone 3

THE EVENING BATH occupies our time. Hoa works. The cat circles my feet. K plays with a new plastic bath toy. It's yellow and it sprays a small fountain of water. Outside, the night air comes cold, a black liquid. Spaced out in books and television today. Took K to Zilker park. Went down the slide and hung on monkey bars. These days soon open us, the earth-bound babe preparing for that head-down descent. Out the shaft into air and light. And there's the pressure to make more money. Be a good parent in a sadistic culture craving a flesh-flayed Christ action hero of the American Death Cult. And the earth closes up for good somewhere. The tomb's shut tight. Seek an exit by the blast of trumpeting angels. A polytheism of things, like this buzzing plastic toy my son fondles so lightly in bath water. Death is a germ we carry, loaded into the cells at birth. Note to self: cf. Bergson on mind and matter. How the purple octopus takes me by its fat tentacles to a year ago when K moved quite differently, with less physical authority, in the water or on dry land. The goofy smiling octopus spits water from its mouth. We're delighted. We seek delight.