In my dream, I am cutting the lawn at my grandfather’s house.

this leg a genetic mutation bent askew a latitude of pain. take

The musician hated fame, the thought of it made him sick. Bob Dylan wanted to cut

is stretched across the sky dove white against stark blue. down here people move around. they are busy and do not look

I see dead bodies rising up as if under some mystical persuasion, bodies going home,

Christ, I need a drink. I know my liver is toast and drinking is a death sentence. I know all this. But I cannot think of an elixir that takes me down from the dark place and force-feed...

nothing here. sky a lint colored marmalade. outside a man in a blue tee shirt

As the end draws closer with its thin dim light things begin to disappear. I have sections of my brain hijack…

It was the liver and the lungs. He had no idea how long the mundane and predictable episode would last…

If I see him again, I will complain to no one nowhere. There is not a reliable complaint department.

reading the news he discovers the boys at NASA are using something called

her mother was Japanese and her father an American stationed at the Futenma air station

In school they taught us things not compatible with the real world. It is said

Leeza dances drunkenly near the ed… Death is two inches away. I see her tumbling end over end a broken screaming windmill.

I take a suitcase of downbeat irrelevancies and memories with me through