Notes: **LateNightFloat**
My bedroom is a sailboat. I wake sailing across the streets of South Berkeley just over the roof tops; suspended like a cloud. Old hippies replant succulents in red glossy ceramic potholders, paint chips on faded wind breakers. Men stand outside barber shops on Sacramento street, talking across four lanes of traffic, coming inside and out. People pile into Acuras; they pile their belongings into Hondas and Toyotas.