.Indians s**ttered on dawn's highway bleedingGhosts crowd the young c***d's fragile eggshell mind.blood in the streets in the town of new havenblood stains the roofs and the palm trees of veniceblood in my love in the terrible summerbloody red sun of phantastic L.A.blood screams her brain as they chop off her fingersblood will be born in the birth if a nationblood is the rose of mysterious unionblood on the rise, it's following me.Indian, Indian what did you die for?Indian says, nothing at all.Gently they stir, gently riseThe dead are newborn awakeningWith ravaged limbs and wet soulsGently they sigh in rapt funeral amazementWho called these dead to dance?Was it the young woman learning to play the ghost song on her baby grand?Was it the wilderness c***dren?Was it the ghost god himself, stuttering, cheering, chatting blindly?I called you up to anoint the earthI called you to announce sadness falling like burned skinI called you to wish you wellTo glory in self like a new monsterAnd now. The next day – Sunday – was a hot, sunny day. At least there was a decent breeze, which made the sailing exciting. We finished near the front of the field, but by the time handicaps were applied, we came in about the middle of the twelve boat fleet. Still, it was good fun, exciting at time, and being out on the water with Don and Lori got my mind off Cathy. Once we had finished at the sailing club, Lori asked me back to her place for dinner. Her mother had cooked some Italian style chicken, in a tomato sauce with spaghetti. Chicken Parm, she called it – short for Parmigarna, apparently.After dinner Lori and I worked on the story; she wanted to know if I felt what she had written for the second chapter was a little “over the top”.“Is Judy being too much of a tease?” she asked me.“I think so,” I replied. “Think about it; it’s the first day they are back together, and there’s at least a week to let things develop. Sure, she’s got a history with Phil, but there’s his way of being.
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