There is no Wolf Street here in the desert, which is fine because there are no women to work its corners. Hanging off the badland’s edge with stomach knives turned to broil, Witch Mountain had taken the shape of a noose. I hadn’t bathed in days. I was one with the floor, trying to grasp the recent night’s motives. Too sore for heaven, I knew she was coming. A funeral face reflects as certain past lives show some teeth. THEY want us extinct.

Wolf constellations and seductive energy from Jupiter were influencing the environment. Spring had permeated the air while the homeopathy brought my past twenty two lives out. Not a single one was good. Riding out the peak of mania in the tub, I was meditating myself out of collapse. I agreed that it might be time as my mind hung outside the only portal I hadn’t yet checked out. I left That Girl and her record collection by the side of the road but worrying was useless; someone would stop by any second, as if you didn’t already know. Daydreaming under lavender water with my mouth to the night, froth froze on the remote viewing of a place I never quite knew.

She enters the room once in a lifetime, naturally during the only moment in that lifetime that you are not thinking of her. Answers only transpire when you are out of body, however, there is never anyone there to write the message. “Now hiring: secretary grounded and familiar with both worlds. Must be willing and able to work all hours of the night.”

My ticket was taken from my hand and the water turned velvet. The lights lowered, three matches for three candles. Sulfur made its presence known. Bacteria, cancer, parasites, heavy metals, and all the desert witches of the fishless track were hitching a ride. Along with the other toxic travelers that had been invoked inside of me, we were locked in for one final cosmic road trip. These passengers had almost come full cycle. As most unwanted growths, you must suffer them as you would a younger sibling that defies all personal space. Eventually you grow to understand them and somewhat appreciate them, and by then they will have moved on. Picking scabs before their predestined fall off date will only prolong the unavoidable process. Nausea further heightened while a dirty thunderstorm kicked off the start of the bon voyage fireworks. The conductor sees nothing and I am forced to help them reach their desired soil. I grin and bear it, knowing this is goodbye. Death almost won the last time the desert spread her legs for me but now it was my turn to dump it like the corpse that she was destined to be. The nurse died in my claws.