I remember the night I first met you On Bernal Heights, before we knew The Craft would cross our paths. The strident horn of your flaming car Drew me to the street: before The doors of Hightower, where Lord Randall ruled his mad Court of science-fictioneers, Van the Dagda read an Anglican wake Over your still-smoking engine. I remember you, and I begin to let you go.     I remember how you sang to me and Alta When you first visited us in … [Read more...]