From Chris Hutchinson:

MARTHA STEWART

I dreamt I met Martha Stewart, that I had become successful enough to visit her at home. I was amazed at the layout of the place. Strange instillations were built into every room. In the hallway road signs and traffic lights hung everywhere like a maze of indirection. The bathroom was a labyrinth of mirrors. Surprised as well I was to find the colour of each piece of furniture in the living room a different shade of mauve. I quickly phoned a friend of mine, a poet whose career I’d always envied, thinking to make him envious of me, now that I was hanging out at Martha Stewart’s pad. But as always, when we call someone in dreams, there’s no one home. Martha knew some poets, that is she knew the gossip of their lives, but not their work. Emily Dickinson was one she tsk-tsked, distrusting solitude. But Martha was so nice. Her smile filled my dream with liquid ease as she took me by the hand and led me to a room full of her latest projects and left me to poke around. By this time I had to admit the woman had a gentle charm but was a hack at what she did. The room was a storehouse for the absurd: TV dinner trays complete with their own microwaves, beaten-up lawn furniture tied together with bungee cords, and strange unidentifiable furry things with furry ears lay strewn around. It made me think of the uselessness of misdirected dreams, of the weird abundance of the insane. Then I heard a sound. It was the ocean's low thunder and endless sigh, and I found a window (trimmed in lurid fuchsia) where outside below dark outcroppings of rock transfigured the sea to white foam. The sky gleamed an astounding blue. I decided then to leave the house, sneak out before Martha returned. I’d find the seashore and write this poem before I awoke, before my own mind came crowding back, so eager to make things itself, and flood the world with its brilliant accomplishments.