In my dream I’m heading down Columbus Avenue  and take a quick detour into the Polish supermarket: the aisles are stacked with produce until they are a maze of interlaced onions, celery and red cabbage.

In my dream I am seated down front for a production of “Applause”. The bathrooms are cruisy but only have white sailcloth dividers, so I’m flushing the toilet with my foot. A neighbor displays journals and self burned CDs on a small table during intermission.

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 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.