To take off a uniform that is not mine, I need to go upstairs to my apartment; but I am afraid that the uniform's owner is waiting in the lobby to accost me. I go to the elevator's basement stop, but it is guarded by a family of raccoons. So, I decide to take a chance that the owner is gone. Instead, there's a young man in the lobby, also dressed in military garb. I cover the bars on my shoulders, as I am impersonating an officer, while he is trying to see if he needs to salute me.

Soon after the war was over, the ghost of an American soldier materialized in Vietnam. An infuriated officer pissed on the spot where his troops had reported it. When apparition fled, the officer began to suffer migraine headaches. Consulting a ritual specialist, he was told the subject is plastic—not elastic, it never springs back into its original form—it is malleable, but it can explode and create itself anew. In this way, there is nothing outside the text, but the text is no less natural than it is cultural, it is no less biological than it is spiritual (or mental), it is no less material than it is to dig up an American skull with a bullet hole in it, and have the remains sent home. After an unknown foreign soldier was found, boxed and shipped home, the headaches disappeared. The ritualist said, "Dead people don't fight. They are not really even angry. They simply want to be remembered."

The feathered discs of asters trace
the lower sun, stars following a star.
Yellow and purple, the colors of resurrection,
are out of season.

Autumn recycles summer's heat into red, yellow and purple sprinkled with orange and misty blue. I bow to their beauty,
not to genus, order, phylum, species, family or given name.