Saturday, I dreamed a friend and I bought a small yellow house from another friend, a certain fiery-haired Atlanta poet (hi Laurel). The house was on a mountain, overlooking a field of white flowers like a hundred dandelion heads that never blew away, and it was messy, full of papers and desks and still lifes and bicycles and a typewriter, and we liked it that way. A group of engineering students were trying to build a road through our mountain, and we stopped them with the sheer power of our sarcasm alone.
Are you sure you know what you're doing? we said disdainfully from the porch.
Is that really how it's done?
Uh-huh. I didn't think so, we said as they slinked away.