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She runs the Diner of Diners called “End of the Metaverse Eats” serving up Pan-fried Dreams with a side of black-eyed peas and, on Fridays ONLY, braised Collard Greens with all the Fixins, and the iced tea flows and flows and I sit counter-wise as the sun slides down for zenith in the clear afternoon — read more

In Japan on New Year’s Day morning, you must see the sunrise otherwise daemons will take your soul.  I don’t remember if this is from Shintoism or Zen Buddhism, or was just local tradition.  An old Shinto monk told me this on a cold New Year’s Eve night as my wife and I partied on the — read more

Dream Synopsis — I’m just a tad north of Elysium, wandering in a Field of Buttercups with Butterflies butterflying about and a Stream of honeysuckle-tasting water lazily meandering in the Verdant Valley with a not-too-hot Solar Orb skyward and I close my eyes as I hear her voice then realize I’m actually dreaming I’m in — read more

Laundromats were fixtures of a Certain Era and Place when she and I spent time in such an establishment, airing our dirty laundry so to speak, with a roll of Quarters in one hand and a box of powder detergent in the other, all on a hot Sunday August early evening in that high-desert central — read more

I remember we put the beer on ice in the cooler along with a whole watermelon and the glass beer bottles were always cold at the River that one lost summer, her in her gingham bikini and her wide round sunglasses concealing her eyes but not her smile as the heat and humidity fought to — read more

I’ve contemplated the R.V. Lifestyle and I’d basically L. Ron Hubbard it and drive north and south on U.S. 101 on the Oregon/Washington coast in a rig called “Mystic 7” with an ostentatious air brushed Boris Vallejo painting on BOTH sides of the R.V. and I’d grow my hair long and utter things like “groovy” — read more

I remember thinking at the time that this was like a dream Publilius Syrus would have dreamt except a bit more non-lugubrious, with red rose petals cast hither and yon about our hotel room, a half-drunk second bottle of brut in the champagne bucket, the ice a slosh of thawing desire, and the sound of — read more

On a purposeful sky — read more

Bodies in motion on the Slipstream. Dreams of the Nothingness a few microns beyond the hull’s barrier field. Are my dreams lost in the Slipstream? To forever remain in Owen Space? The old hands say as much. I don’t know. I’m a skeptic, which is why she left me. Yet, the old hands talk of — read more

She served the champagne warm but over ice with a single grind of white pepper and a drop or two of Avery Island’s Finest, a concoction she called “Modern Byzantine” and, when she first served me this beverage, I raised my flute to her and uttered “Et tu brut?” to which she smiled with a — read more