Late one beer-soaked Sunday in May...

In times of peace, the following would have been dedicated to ivy leagues of research, to missionaries of all sorts, etc. However, in this time of war, the government and its military complex are the more worthy recipients of the said dedication.

Changing out of his painting clothes after a somewhat disappointing day in his studio, he noticed the worn spot on the heel of his sock. It reminded him of the bald spot on the back of his head.

I told him his name, his former occupation, everything except the reason for his being there. You keep falling down, I told him, which was true enough.

I shot a dogre out of the blue sky. With its wing blown off, it swam in circles for a very long time before I rowed out and picked it out of the water. When I got back to the wharf, I cradled the little dogre in my arms. It had a black head and blacker eyes.

Never mind how I got it. Maybe I helped pay my way through college working part time as a museum guard. Lifted it one night from a case. Or I attended an underground auction where, for a price, such objects can be had.

I haven't been this awake in a month, I feel the renewal coming, the Rastaman says "I-and-I," I don't mean the same thing, the filled-up part turns on—never more clear how the placement of the clouds eroticized the liquid in my eyes, remember those eyes, remember those cumulous.

Standing with great authority at the head of the site, the man in black ceremoniously pushed the button, and the ornate wooden casket started on its final downward journey. Soon, only its lid could be seen. The large flower basket, mostly daisies, became ever more prominent and the stainless turning rods activated by the hidden motor which powered the lowering of the coffin, came clearly in view.