Seafood City, Very Pretty

Fade In.

The violet sky suffused with a borealis green at the horizon line, and where a dark lake should be I find instead a crumpled piece of black construction paper.

But how did they get the paper so big I say.

As the words leave my mouth they are sucked into a vortex that drains up into a hole in the sky.

And a hot dog vendor materializes and says to me That’s where the wheel in the sky kept on turning.

To which I respond I hate Journey and I hate that the reference has snuck into this dream — although at this point I’m not sure that this won’t degenerate into a nightmare.

The vendor says Nightmare? You ain’t seen a nightmare until you’ve had to vend hot dogs in exactly 1,362,863 dreams. That’s a nightmare, bud! I have a PhD in Medieval Culture and this is what I’m stuck with—hot dogs. Bugger off!

I find myself in New Orleans at 1826 North Broad, and I hear the Seafood City jingle. A disheveled woman stands by the door pulling the earrings on her ears to bizarre lengths, repeating Tchoupitoulas… Tchoupitoulas… Tchoupitoulas…

A 6-foot tall crawfish juts up on its tail and says Ya’ gotta’ suck the head.

The wind gusts. It hails.

Hail strikes me about the head and ears. My ears fall off and transmogrify into two crawfish which scurry away into a sunny mouse hole in the floorboards.

Swells of ELO’s Mr. Blue Sky waft out of the mouse hole.

There is one full minute of elation.

Fade out.

What I’m Reading:

“No, this year I want to call
myself to task for what
I have done and not done
for peace. How much have
I dared in opposition?”

— Marge Piercy / “The birthday of the world”