the brass fan
spins shadows on the ceiling
while the dogs outside
bark and
Brautigan
rests beside this bed
still laughing.
outside
the spilled night
is alive
harassed-
by blue red flashes
against buildings
against glass
against death itself
mingling in the gutters
as clouds above
flow
to places unseen:
so I rise from here
turn off the daytime
and sneak off in-
to dreams
to places
no one else can follow
to where it doesn't cost a cent.