Where we are was intended, originally, to be yet one more virtual Art Gallery.   It seemed like a good idea at the time; one can never, afterall, have enough of art.  Yes?  We were going to interlink the Art Shops, with their little Coffee Bars and spaces for readings, exhibits, et al ... .  As I said, it seemed like a good idea, at the time.  When we were laying the floor, however, I noted that one of our workmen opted, ever, to speak in rhymed verse.  It piqued my curiosity ... so I cornered him, one afternoon, and confronted his metrical precision.  He told me, simply, that  'Poetry is the meat and bone of Hell; we speak it all; it bespeaks us well.'  He explained that it made damnation endurable.

Joe Enzweiler and I held court at Mermaid's Tavern ... .   Shakespeare had held court there, once.  Perhaps Roger Bacon as well.   Perhaps.  I liked to think our reign more ... beneficent than Dick Hague's the years before, or Bernie -- no matter --> the true poetry began always when the meetings had concluded; Joe and I would withdraw to Mad Woman Canyon for coffee and tea, and pancakes; they were an especial favorite of ours.  The Mad Woman herself, however, was more important still.  She inspired us.  By her presence.  She seemed one of the touched; she was one of those touched by Apollo <or some one of the other gods> and made mad by that touch.  She spoke gibberish.  Hiked her skirts and danced about wildly.  Asked irrelevant questions of us.  Waited for no answers.  She stared longingly into space.  She made our lives at once meaningful, and uncomfortable.  We had no choice -- Joe and I -- but to kill her.   Or fall in love.