I once had this dream in which I was the Broomfield/Theroux figure in a Documentary of the aforementioned title, accompanying David Berman as he walked into intimidating wilderness, a terrain which while barren, still – as he made pains to point out to me,“…has the odd barn casting a shadow the color of dried-up blood”.
A squashed can of compressed veal. A soggy copy of Playboy, singed around the centerfold’s midriff.
“Why would anyone want to set fire to the image of a naked cowgirl?” I asked rhetorically.
Chasing him through parking lots,
Into parallels,