Dawn Dreams (of Doors)

A grainy film slide, at moon drop melodrama. He

has one hand by the lip—beer breakfast—of a glass

while his other hand rests, below brow bone

forming shadow puppets with the palm wrinkles of

life lines. An odd gesture. Fate is a four-lettered word

for nightmare. On an inky morning LA hangout he was

camera captured, a photo by B. Klein at daybreak’s dawn

dream. He sits by salt and pepper shakers and the kind of

retro sugar dispensers only found in American diners,

used for morning coffees, late afternoon coffees,

and coffees for truckers and commuters who drive through

the night. Headache or hangover how many ways can you say

Jim Morrison? He has his middle finger dipping, down

into frothy hallow, the space where beer used to be but

now is half empty. The little bubbles remaining, slow draining.

And behind him is a door, ajar, an entrance or exit. Could be

nothing more than a closet, a motion unfinished. Stuck

somewhere between open or closed.