Dream of Me As Richard Brautigan, the Hat Howls

In the digitimes of trout streams full of numbers, I’m the dark echo of a moon-ringing splash-machine named 567-3389, my old phone number, that crazy pet of howling crisis I’m nursing now with my tender planted hands and my tender planted ears full of dark echo and soil. Sure, my life now is an echo of singing numbers transformed by darkness into emptiness dreaming of rhymes. Please, dream of me as Richard Brautigan, howls a dark empty hat in a dark empty room suffers homesickness of a poet. This lonely hat, moon in black, remote like tomb, is in love with fairytales and fishing. It has a silver trout shadow and all! [Christos Tsanakas, Athens/Greece/June 2016]