I am in my room being intimate. Outside the door latched three times, "in Harlem," stands the Predator. The Predator has this way of knocking that I hate. It's just really annoying. She doesn't seem to have had lessons in manners behind door knocking. So I'm not going to let him in. He and she can have at it together, with their mixed symbolism: Aztec ceremonial grotesqueries mixed with Western Gothic buttresses all in a homo-derivative form. Now one such arm is knocking on my door. That the spear is a concept behind predatorily hunting shouldn't be surprising. The Predator fits woven in the mesh between civilization (war) and barbarism (individual gratification through violence) in a structure where food is "got," not purveyed, and now he's hers, ready to invade my harmonious sandwich. The chutneys of the Predator's eyes, his and her custom made spirit gaze, the three-pronged red beams scan through entangled home stereo setups and shoe caddies. In the end, happy that you're the Predator and not Arnold because that would be awkward to be human with Arnold, this was a productive dream with great progress toward reconciliation.