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I saw former Red Sox pitcher Bill "The Spaceman" Lee take something from a dumpster in 
front of the Corbett house.  "Watch it!" said Lee, "dreams are not hard science like 
colonoscopy and laser hair removal-dreams don't even know your name, Mr. Wally Cox, 
and therefore they come to you but could just as easily visit someone else when all 
you wanted was to have your head patted like a child.  And I am Bill Lee, making a 
voodoo doll of Carl Yazstremski whose dream came to me by mistake and said Yaz was 
living in the Corbett house, upstairs under the eaves." "Is Bill moving?" I asked, 
"What's he need a dumpster for, anyway?"  "Ask him yourself, here he comes," shouted 
Bill Lee as he ran down Columbus Avenue, sideways like a crab.  "Bill, I don't 
understand, what is this all about?" "Dreams," snarled Corbett, "Who the hell is Bill 
Lee to talk about dreams!"  And we walked into his study which was filled with 
life-size voodoo dolls of Bill Lee, each wearing a different set of legs: deer legs, 
grasshopper legs, rat's feet, and still twitching in the corner, a doll with legs of a 
blue-claw crab taken from the Gowanus Canal when Bill was visiting Brooklyn where the 
crab population, long crushed under the weight of pollution, now floats and copulates 
in the currents around Brooklyn like a blue halo.  "Dreams know your name, Ed Cullen 
Bryant, like a real estate agent knows a price. Through my black art I torment Bill 
Lee with more sets of legs climbing up on him than some of the poor souls who once 
worked as prostitutes on Columbus Avenue.  But now Boston has these dumpsters where 
our true past, which is unclaimed dreams, gets shoveled out each morning!"   And Bill 
kicked the side of the dumpster so hard some trash spilled out revealing a child's 
Burger King paper crown from a lost day in the lost life of the nameless real, its 
gold paper glistening in the sun.  Just then the soul of John Wieners stood beside us 
and when he picked up the Burger King crown and set it on his courtly brow, you could 
see it wasn't paper at all, but the live body of a blue-claw crab, its shell 
delicately balancing on top of John's bald spot, its legs in the air like a Boston 
prostitute, and in each of its needley pincers a birthday candle glowing in the blue 
smoke of the Virgin Mary's cigarette.