Did you ever ask the oatmeal questions when your
own dreams were boring, Hank Williams? I walk
around that honeycomb in the attic of the honey-
eyed, the grandmothers. Their minds are right
clogged, dribbling into the bowl. We’re having an
auction of the stuff from some state museum no one
visits—it all comes out with tags on, Hank
Williams. There, the lazy-looking beast of a slot
machine that won’t crank. There, the pillowcase
covered in the signatures of cat fur. There, a boy,
awaying to various stoops on boy feet, wanting no
autograph.