duck feathers and the hawk's cry

Was on a wooden deck at a lakefront. There was a rundown Somerville-style house behind the deck, which I was in the process of moving into. I walked through the house and there was graffiti scrawled all over the walls and it was generally quite filthy. I was thinking about how much of a pain it will be to clean up the place.

Kurt Cobain was there, as well as other people I identified as dead. He handed me a half-dead mandarin duck and asked me to butcher it for dinner.



I took it to the kitchen, which was much like the downstairs bar area of my old house. I placed it on the counter, and his eyes were rolling around in their sockets in pain. I could not bring myself to decapitate him, even if it meant putting him out of his misery. I asked Kurt to do it, and he did with gusto.

I began to butcher the duck, but as I sliced into his body, blood began pouring out. When the blood hit the floor, it became a torrent of water. I took a broom and tried sweeping the flood into a drain that was underneath the fridge. The grate on the drain had a swastika on it.



The beautiful feathers of the duck littered the floor, and when I looked closely at them their striations turned into faces and eyes. I began to wake up, and heard a red-tailed hawk calling. I don't know if it was part of the dream or my old friend in Boston greeting me from the couch at 3 Mossland.