Dream Recorded in the Penn View Hotel Trapped inside the jukebox, the cow moos while flies buzz: the universe's background static in its ears. The scene changes: outside, near a parking lot, I check my jacket pocket to make sure I still have the pistol.  I do. On a whim, I walk left, toward where the street slants under the Elkton Drugstore sign toward a memory that's difficult to grasp. Later in a package store I buy a pint of rum. Behind the counter, a man with a spider tattooed on his neck laughs and asks "New round here, ain't you mister?" "I guess so," I answer as I wreck his skull with my gun handle then yank open the cash register, only to find the tray stuffed with children's play money. Enraged, I kick the toppled clerk in the head, stomach, back. Nostalgia's blood leaks between his lips as, on the floor, the Red Sea parts    and I walk through triumphantly --   I'm God's prophet.  Don’t you dare mess with me.