Exiting a freeway ramp into downtown Albuquerque, on streets vaguely remembered. Did I expect
the cycles of creation and destruction, building and tearing down, would cease while I was gone?

Aztec gods were entombed in "a vast cave filled with skeletons and ruled by the Lord and Lady of
Death," beneath the altars of the invading Christian Church. Their bones still echo footfalls above.

I was guided by Central Avenue, still running through the city's heart:

Its rushing eyes glimpsed in opposite directions;
marginal bushes thriving on pollution that defies
straight lines.

My first house was my last sculpture studio. Then lived in an apartment since razed to the ground
so not to shelter its landlord's evil chindi. Last came a thin-walled apartment on a quiet street next
door to a couple from hell.

Today, standing outside
I recalled the night I was
suddenly connected, to
a virtual world.