The dream the dream the dream! I write like Liz Hand. The dark underbelly of the city. Not just people dying. All of it. Every city has one. All are the same. The dark 3am beat. Put my poem in your book. My dream of it. An artist painting an artist painting an artist  painting an artist... 

The big young potentially dangerous Russian stood in front of me. He thought what he had to say is important. He gave my soldier friend a note. Read it he said, it's says what they thinks about me. I nearly fight Ivan. He thinks I'm a banker and rich. I say Bro, I fly planes and write books. Dead it!, he tells my pal. My poem is about it because it's real.