• Nina Hanz

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.

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