I was charged with the task of making machinery out of poetry. The machines were indescribably beautiful, so much so that I cannot remember what they looked like.

There was a wonderfully exhuberant interlude where I was weightless aboard something much better than the Space Shuttle, sort of an endless celestial plane of crystal. I was on a tether, floating happily, when the tether was snapped in mid-flight by an Associated Press cameraman. I did not seem to mind in the least.

Segue to downtown L.A., being driven by my brother-in-law, the Long-Range Reconnaissance Patrolman. I was very aware of not using a seatbelt as we passed a cop. He looked like Stanley Kubrick without a beard, and gave me the idea for noding forced development as the sky turned copper and turquoise.

We pulled up in front of a building that was apparently my brother-in-law's radio station; he was going to show me where he worked.

Inside there was an up-scale mortuary store--a place that sold all the paraphernalia. It reminded me of one of those exclusive men's clubs, paneled in dark expensive wood. They were playing Dido songs, and for some reason I especially wanted a coke from a small refrigerator in the corner.

Two waiter-types were transparent and they had waists that indented--like shelves--in their bodies. We were trying to decide between two lovely wedding gowns for Tina--which were obviously lace shrouds--when I awoke in a field outside an elegant mansion.

A tame deer, named Linda, befriended me. She ate tortillas that I brought her and was extremely affectionate. She also spoke.

It was peculiarly erotic.