Then there was the debate over cloning. Abortion. Lateral advancements in the political field. Too much to think about.

It was around midnight when Kate turned over in her sleep. I had given her a Valium earlier. She was stressed about the wedding. So was I, but she had more things to get done and plan and reserve. All I wanted to do was watch a documentary about sword making. That Bob Dylan audio book was overdue. He was human after all.

Damp Towels in the dryer. Cold fried chicken. Rats behind the walls.

I got up to pour a glass of ginger ale. Three months ago we were still dating. Now she had moved in. Bookshelves were needed. Towels. A new sofa. She had stopped taking Lexapro because she couldn’t climax. One in fifteen people in America were on antidepressants. The Guardian UK was the only news source I trusted. Traffic reports were fake. Suicide bombers. Pregnant teens on the rise. A goth girl kicked to death by a fifteen year old boy in Leeds.

Easing out on the back porch, I let my eyes wander the sky. Nothing moving but a distant jet. A pretty pale blue that told me not to worry. Troubles came and went. Neighbor’s yard needs cut. Got to haul off that old vanity one of these days. A Buddha for the garden. Mosquito repellant. All good and strange things here on the ground. All good and strange. Then again, Napalm could be made from dish detergent, gasoline and sawdust. It rapidly deoxygenates all available air. And honey has no shelf life.

A train whistle drifted over the treetops. I wondered where it was going. Somehow I always managed to live near the tracks. Motion. Vibration. Flattening quarters.

Letting my eyes find the moon, I thought about black holes. Galaxies no bigger than a thumbnail. Galaxies that supposedly contained life. All spinning. All moving. Death is not to move.

The water heater needed replacing. Bunnies for sale up the road. Milk almost four dollars a gallon.

The door behind me slid open. “What are you doing up?” Kate asked, rubbing her eyes.

“Just relaxing. My mind was too busy to sleep.”

“Don’t stay up long.”

“I won’t.”

Then she was gone. Back to bed. What did she see in me?

Swayze’s got cancer. The world was poisoning us. Eddie Van Halen was in rehab again. Valerie cheated on him four years into their marriage. The living room needed painting.

Studies show that sixty percent of men over forty suffer from erectile dysfunction. And balding. But what about the Lunar Landing. Was it staged? Did Hendrix take the brown acid at Woodstock? Were aliens hiding in cloud formations?

There was a familiar rustle in the bushes beside the house. That damned armadillo again. It only moved around at night. I had been meaning to set some traps after it dug a hole under the porch.

And Oprah. What didn’t she own? Not the spy satellite that came tumbling down. Not the terrorist tortured in Guantanamo Bay. Amazing that this country owns a spot of Cuba. There’s so much information out there. Live via satellite. Have to pick and choose.

Elvis’ death date was coming up. Graceland would be packed.

Ulcers in my mouth. High blood pressure. Hair needs cut again. Hillary back in the White House. Gotta check those sodium levels on the soup. No one was looking out for us.

It wasn’t that I was scared of the wedding. I just wanted it to be over with. I didn’t want roses. I wanted wine and dancing. I wanted good things and funny people.

Then there was Skylab to think about. Cholesterol. Need to stay away from whole milk. The whole cow. Meat packing plants were sending us to our graves.

I looked down and realized I was standing on the deck chair. Not the greatest idea. I jumped and landed with a thud. More rustling. Frightened the armadillo. He should be afraid. They should all be afraid. I could snap very easily one day. Like those Columbine kids. Like Manson. Like people who drop babies from bridges for no reason. The devil tells them to do it. Although logically the concept of Satan is laughable. I’m sure there’s a profile on me somewhere.

Lifting the grill top, I snuck out my cigarettes and fired one up. Kate hated to see me smoke. And I had cut down. But I couldn’t afford Chantix. Better cigarettes than hookers. Or Heroin. The ghost of Sid Vicious said that.

I didn’t believe in a better world. Gas going up again. Air conditioning in the truck was busted. Greed was to blame. Organized religion. Bad parenting.

Kate had asked me about my scars the other day. I just couldn’t tell her. Secrets are terrible things. My ex was still on my tattoo. She didn’t say anything about that. Rain tomorrow. Still a lot of satellites up there. A waiting game.

I used to be a happy person. I really did. I remember taking naps in the afternoon. Telling jokes. Going to church. Normal.

Obama failed in Texas. Cheney was the epitome of evil. I didn’t shoot people.

The loose floor plank was getting worse. I took the vodka out and carefully hid it beside my chair. Kate knew about the bourbon, but she didn’t know about the vodka. More secrets. God bless her, she was in for a rough ride. I’d try to be better this time. I’d try not to stray.

Jesus was a Capricorn. The Black Plague was bio warfare. No one wrote letters anymore. No one cared.

I had a hit. Then another. My mother was tracing our family tree. Back to the mother land. Some Native American blood on my dad’s side. I still called them Indians. They could gage the ferocity of each winter by looking at the Buffalo hides each fall. If it was thick, there would be much snow.

A cookout would be nice. All my friends were married and had kids. All Kate’s friends were graduating college. It’s a wild ride to start over with someone younger. A new perspective. Strange. Like learning to walk again.

Everything on the radio now was crap. News got in the way. Truth was hidden. Even history lied.

I worried about the future. Another cigarette. I’d brush my teeth later. Out of mouthwash. The vodka wasn’t good for my indigestion. Old. Bitter. Jaded. Midlife. No one had warned me it would be this hard. An acceptance of time. Fingernails needed cut. Brakes checked on Kate’s Pathfinder. No more fast food. Credit cards maxed out. Idiot’s crunching numbers all day.

They were saying that Bush would go down in history as a worse president than Nixon. Solar flares were a prediction of a bad economy. Another hit. Just a few hours of sleep. I would look like shit in the morning.

One in ten men will develop prostate trouble. The neighbor’s car is always washed. Gleaming.

A revolution was brewing somewhere. Patience required. More bookshelves. A short week coming up. Good Friday. Roll the stone away.

The door behind me slid open again. “It’s two-thirty in the friggin’ morning!” an irate Kate tells me.

“Really?” I say to her, covering the vodka with my robe.

“Are you smoking?”

“I had one.”

“Jesus, will you get in here and go to bed. You’ve got work tomorrow.”

“Yes dear.”

Then she was gone. I could hear her inside, rummaging around. Always changing things. She had rearranged the living room three times. Still wasn’t happy.

Another garbage strike in New York. Governor and his call girls. Naughty. Maybe I’ll start lifting weights again. Get in shape.

I had one final hit, then put the vodka away. Then I looked back to the sky for answers. Guidance. But it was quiet. It was real quiet up there. For now.

Keith Wood has successfully escaped from Philadelphia, Austin, and is now back home where he belongs in Mississippi. You can get him at: kwoodphilly@msn.com. He sends most of his stories and poems to Underground Voices and Cherry Bleeds, and hopes that his mom isn’t reading any of them.