reading my future in the entrails of sausages and eggs my Las Vegas fortune has baby Elvis in the bottom of my morning cup telling me in his squeaky southern voice that the guy across the breakfast table who won 300 dollars in an all night run of craps tables and blondes isn't going to make it on two legs and coherent past mid-afternoon that it doesn't matter if I put my head on the gray woolen shoulders of Japanese businessmen I still won't catch the birds of a different tongue that fly out of their mouths and the voice of the temporary god of the loudspeaker is speaking Chinese like the dice-headed dogs in my dreams LeeAnn Heringer |