with a movie ticket to Bowies moonage daydream, I wait in the lounge, alone with strangers. It’s a secret pleasure of mine to see a movie on my own. I watch a ballerina dance with her wine glass. So give me a dollar of your money and a minute of your time. A moonage daydream and I begin to believe in my dreams. What seemed impossible in my life no longer does. Poets don’t have thick skins, we absorb everything, from a casual conversation to a phd thesis, from a house plants photosynthesis to a child’s innocence. Observations written down in a notebook, a satellite capturing the images of unknown worlds. On the red carpet I saw the trail of blood from everyone who’s gone before and lost their lives. A long time ago David Bowie came to me in a dream and told me to call him dada, an art movement of painters and poets and an affectionate name for papa.