“We call it Europe, but it’s really the imagination.” Tod Thilleman

Nighthawks salon alone or scissor- the first of their scissoring I know- over Fulton Market, a street, not a market exactly, except that still many aproned meat men hose floors between gallerist and gallery. Worked on my red at Promontory Point, high sun hours and Calvino no protection factor. Night’s bicycle in the sensorium. Lox at Eleven. Fiction spoils of the Printer’s Row book fair. What time is it there? (In Dutch) Believe me, someone tried to break in. Paranoid American, put your electronics in the dryer, no one will look for them there. Salon tip: effectively punctuate the end of a poem with “Fuck em!” or “Reagan was president then.”