REFLECTIONS IN A GOLDEN NEST OF FLYING AWAY FROM SAME

When I woke up, he was gone. All that was left of him was a poem on the wall. I went up and read it and felt better. It was him all right. He hadn't gone anywhere–he was right there, all safe and warm and written. Now how in the world can I get him out?


all artwork, except likenesses of Lyndon B. Johnson, by Crispy Flotilla ® 2006