so this is the dream again. I keep waking to wet flesh that ain't mine and I didn't have nothin' to do with it, I swear to God she meant nothing to me, damn it Chicago Indians are people, too. wipe, draw and chastigate memories of rubber sheets, electricity something that didn't smell like me sister father mother wrapped up in wet towels, electricity the absorbant kind, the kind that work as good as the cloth ones. TV. Radio. places we come together as more than one, less than paper or plastic, release, cock the hammer back slowly. so this is the dream again.