created by the sounds that started long ago. in the days before dinosaurs and blue chips. we baked in our own consciousness and rose like the bread on san pablo ave. reaching like smokestacks up to heaven and turning to steam before we left the stratosphere. our thoughts condense there and then drip down. they collect at the bottom. the bottom fills up the space and the space fills up the ground and the ground goes on forever. where we walk we have left breadcrumbs from the days when we were unleavened. but too much yeast has made us sour. and i walk as a mammal with my own taxonomy in mind. where i fit. and don’t.