The Saloon

I am in a saloon, where a blanket of glittering mist covers the floor, and where critics are shredded by Apache gunships at the door. Hemingway sits at one end of the bar, drinking daiquiris, eyes focused on faraway places, big fish, and revolutions, big and small. Bukowski sits at the other end of the bar, trading shots with his reflection, in a mirror, on the far, bullet-pocked wall. Louis L'Amour hangs his hat, sits at a table in the back, sipping whisky, and dreams of cowgirl angels. Andy Kaufman-- Andy Kaufman? What is he doing here?