Dream in which a convention of poets in pearls and ties are gathered around a funky motel pool (green water), some on lawn chairs, some standing up guarding those on lawn chairs like royalty. Jack with a clipboard and yellow highlighter asking pointed questions to each poet in a if-you-don't-answer-right-we'll-kill-you-like-zombies way. Everyone seems to know and love the rules, eyes all over the place are glossed over. Jack's question to me is something about whether I would attend a certain poet's reading series even though it is quite clear he isn't a vegetarian and in fact devours whole lambs "not just once but at least twice a week." The group sort of somberly nods and mumurs at the toughness of this question I now must answer honestly or be eaten alive...