[Name Removed] says the picture of the first story I ever wrote is
super sexy. Which, of course, is super sexy. And to think I was
just seven, writing a super sexy story about a rooster whose
‘owners’ leave him alone on a farm. They’ve gone to greener
‘owners’ leave him alone on a farm. They’ve gone to greener
pastures. And I might as well have, I think. Our memories
are always mostly buried. Or is that just me? Last night
I dreamt [see below]. All I remember are vague tidbits:
strewn canvases half-covered with dull media, water-
soluble adhesives, hallways from pre-millennial
horror and suspense movies, a deep-dusk fog.
“These overly long halls, their maudlin walls
half-filled with draped, rustling half-glued
paper, are each filled with an impene-
trable, charcoal-colored fog.” [Name
Removed] brings me grimly
back (to where, exactly?),
screams into my head,
Go Away Dream!
