In my dream my bustling and chattiness makes David Lee Roth joke with me and then offer to give me a kiss.

In my dream we are outdoors preparing their wedding.

In my dream the toys are cardboard backed blister packs that contain piles of greasy black plastic guns.

In my dream I’m heading home through downtown and trying to figure out what cheap food I’m going to indulge in. The  pleasure I envision is tinged with the pornographic.

In my dream there are two of us attending the seminar in secret. We are getting ready to compare notes.

In my dream another art professor carries a giant pole, festooned in trash, along Mission.

In my dream I can’t bring myself to complete the drawing, or get dressed.

In my dream I’m in the garden for a few minutes  before it becomes clear that I’m there for a trial before the academic council and will probably be fired.

In my dream I cut a slice off of the loaf, spread it with butter and change the record with my tentacle. I’ve been sleeping in the snow in a borrowed silk robe. I may have got shit on the hem.

In my dream the focus shifts from one to the other of them.

In my dream a charlatan drives a tank into a public celebration on 96th street and loudly decides not to detonate it, to prove how benevolent he is. I am disgusted.

In my dream I’m talking to a young pediatrician who is ready to leave the area. It’s night on the bridge.