into a dead raccoon sprawled over a dying oak tree’s finger roots wrapping around feral decomposition at 26th & Telegraph 2 blocks from where I hunt down my dreams on a bedspread plain before I snap up for a raccoon soup — oh my mistake —

a Gogi Time spicy Korean soup at the incision of Telegraph & 26th. The stench of dead raccoon is an Oakland byproduct with no tip required.

On my couch wrapped in dead cow, I call my brother Mark. He lives 3 blocks or 300 raccoons away if I lined them all up like a dead ruler.

 I haven’t spoken to Mark in a season. He never calls me so I never call him yet today I feel a need. When his hello vibrates into my right eardrum, I ask,

do you remember that raccoon family that lived in the alley behind our apartment building as kids? Through my living room window, a weekend wind howls like my boyhood being who screamed before a screeching raccoon.