I had a dream last night that I was in a car with Larry Eigner and Allen Ginsberg. Larry was driving. We drove over wooden slats in a muddy field and got stuck. Larry was extremely upset that he ruined Allen’s car. Allen didn’t care. And then Gregory Corso appeared and suddenly we were standing in a wooded area beside a rotting graveyard. The moon was so large it consumed half the sky, and it was light orange. An eerie orange. I fumbled with my phone to take a picture of it, and then I woke up.

Weird dream department: last night I dreamed I died and was promptly pressed into service in a kind of poet's community, everybody showing up from Bob Creeley to Charles Olson ("Big Charlie" he was called), Jack Spicer, Robert Duncan & many more. It turned out to be in a kind of bar where everyone was expecting to sing beer songs (Trinklied, the German tinkled in my ears) with unabashed & perpetual gusto. Everyone seemed to be wearing bearskin body-suits.