The Palo Alto BART station, late at night. A gentle madman, broom-thin, sweeps tile round the white bird nesting atop that stone turnstile. A green weave. Leaves? No, cash! Some counterfeit--mere ads meant not to pass. "Queer as a thirty." But not all fake! The crazy hums a song. He won't partake of the treasure curled round the podium foot. He won't, so I don't. But oh, I'm so tempted. Mere paper to the bird, & I'm so broken. Why? Why heed a fool's integrity antique? Yet I too sweep stray bills back to the motherbird stash! A trustee guilt. Appease my obsolete conscience. Yet I copped no free moolah, just considered. Ain't this gilt trip silly even for me? Two couples ride down an escalator to our cavernest, bantering the film they saw and the danceclub they soon will. But now, between, they face but a mad bird, a mad sweeper and me. Look away--three stray beasts. Lost in transit. Beggars in their land: birds out of hand. Forsaking all right to the trove of green, I've married that ancient monkish broom; but in an age of scorn. It simply isn't done. I nest in feathery bills, and slip to sleep; await the sun.

NOTES IN THE MORNING

• Palo Alto BART station? There is none! Years ago Silicon Valley voted down taxes for mass transit--to their present gridlocked regret! I suspect that ghost-station warns that the dream's about bean-counting myopia.
• Stone turnstile/pedestal the bird nested on:
  1. A Hindu lingam, the yang principle, initiative? Standing up for myself; and not just sexually.
  2. Before bed I saw Malcolm In the Middle on TV. A timid boy learns assertion by playing paintball in a maze like my station.
• Money: dating & fun? I'm ambivalent. I long to go out more, like the dream-couples, but when I do I often find I'm bored and wish I was home with a good book.
• I forego money: literally true. I make it readily, but just ain't motivated put the hours in. Even when I have it, I don't know how to spend it. Just unreal to me.
• Crazies: Is my austerity really a problem, or just the ancient ideal of holy poverty? Drastic simplification. And now seen, by Homo Shoppiens, as simply... insane.

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