"My name is Davi Det Hompson," he said, "but you can pronounce it however you want." Some in the audience thought this was audacious. Wanting some more mystery. "I'm from the southwest. One of those towns where there aren't any children. So there aren't any crows." He was sitting in Leo's desk at the new Division Leap. "The number of crows always corresponds to the number of children in a town. IT has to do with the tires. That's why I do what I did. I didn't want to 'heighten language' or have a dialogue with the potentiality of the book. But I didn't want to write poetry either. I wanted my language to seem to be alone in the desert."

I'm in the woods. There is some heavy lifting to do- the crew and I must prove ourselves. Laura (once Johnson & sister-in-law of Phillypoet Mark Johnson) is there, and Jen Coleman appears, with words of warning, when the city begins to appear where we thought we were most remote, that "there are more alien abductions in June than any other month, and we really ought to watch out." The crew then find ourselves in a library, where I note The Dreamer is sitting at a table surrounded by children. The Dreamer confirms with a nod but without opening his eyes (he is not sleeping) that he is practicing "The French Method," or lucid dreaming. I inform Anna Daedalus that The French Method is "the best form of bad Surrealism."

I drive out into the desert with a couple guys from work. The venue is small, the seating haphazard- it might be The Switch, or the Alice Coltrane Memorial Coliseum. It starts to fill in. Pound is reading, I manage to secure a spot next to him on a couch, along with another friend. One of them has pulled out a "Golden Book" and Pound thinks it is incredible, that it must be beyond value. We discuss children's books, and I show him a book of psychedelic children's art from San Francisco, which he finds amusing, but dismisses. Pound is very kind. He recommends I read a book of essays on labor, which he describes quantitatively, praising the symmetry in the sizes of its sections.

The "fidelity" of the dream is unusual, beginning like a Byzantine painting, slightly animated. The Emperor of Italy is holding court. The Emperor of Italy is Mussolini and the court is being given a presentation by two Futurists, one of whom is the Emperor's cousin, "Mussolini." The two Futurists give a presentation of their manifesto, which begins as speech but "degenerates" into a mixture of sound poetry and popular music. The Emperor, who was initially excited about the performance becomes offended and declares it unsuitable. The children of the court at this point become enthralled with the Futurists and counter-protest, rushing past the Emperor to get closer to the Futurists. A "Sheriff-of-Nottingham"-type figure emerges (the fidelity of the dream now more "Saturday morning cartoon"), holding a sign that says "Respect Representation" and slowly begins spinning the sign around. The sign spinning becomes an enlarged phonographic record, and moments later, a compact disc, but ruby in color and three-or more- dimensions. The figure warns of what will come next if the sign continues spinning.

My co-workers at the restaurant where I work have joined a soccer league.  The first  game  is a home game against a bunch of teenage Russians from  SE Portland.  The game  is being held in my parents living room in southern Idaho.  The Russians poke a little fun at our team  but are friendly enough as the game never really gets started.  It's when I  sing a little ditty that ends with a sobriquet sounding ever so slightly Ruski that the tension builds, & the Russians become enraged when I show them my self-published chapbooks, particularly at the pencil marks & scissor cut sections of the cover.

dreamt I was -had been visiting Seneca & Megan, friends from Idaho (& this perhaps where I was visiting), but had by chance met & was conversing with the household of young people that lived "around the corner". They showed me their actualized recipe for marijuana pancakes, something I had in fact dreamed up in Idaho (well, sinsemilia abbelskivers), & when one of those women inquired of a place to practice & record music, I told her of the modish, which is a place here actual transplant friends of mine do same. I literally spelled it out for her, & upon waking realized I was trading the secrets of the waking world for that of my subconscious.