Jim wakes up in a mood most complacent. His mood of

late is like coffee and oranges on a sunny chair, which explains

his complacency. Or not. He is, like his friend and drinking

buddy Wally Stevens says, “the green freedom of a cockatoo

upon a rug.” Although he has no fucking idea what the fuck

he is talking about, this makes a lot of sense to Jim. Or not.

It’s like that time when he was in Jerusalem, back in ’71.

The holy hush of the old walled city at night was like some

weird voodoo ancient sacrifice. That night, in the dark, Jim

had his recurring catastrophic dream that of an orange light

over the green wings of a dead cockatoo. Not only one

cockatoo, though – an endless procession of dead cockatoos,

winding across a wide lake, soundless except for the scraping

of their feet.

He awoke in a sweat. All Palestine was silent in the early

morning sun. The sky looked like blood to him. He thought

about the bounty that was hanging over his head like some

divine shadow. Or was still the dream?

Jim is now living in Portland, Maine, surrounded by the

creature comforts with which a mid-level insurance executive

surrounds himself with. At night, he sits in his barcalounger,

tall glass of vodka in his hand, watching TV, thinking back to

that pungent green night in Jerusalem when he was raptured

by the balm and beauty of the earth and the things he used to

cherish. But, like Wally says when he is deep in his vodka,

“Divinity must live with herself.” Again, Jim has no clue. But

he does, and this passioned clue, mixed with the freezing

rainy night outside the bar, mixed with their grieving in their

mutual loneliness and the subdued gusts of the flowering

blooms that will no doubt come in May cloak them in painful

pleasure on this cold autumn night, he remembers the boughs

of summer and the winter branch, or was that an idea planted

by Stevens? No matter.

You see, dear reader, Jim measures his destiny in

soul-filled measurements, and this will never change.