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.

In my dream I hear two words: pebble egg.

In my dream I hastily hand off the order to the state troopers. Later I realize that it was someone else’s nachos, and not the burrito they ordered.

In my dream we go through all three stories in the early evening. The fruit sellers are there.