Sid Gustafson Bozeman, USA Bayern baptism Fat beggars lined the street. Beer was food in germany, the heartless land, he had overeaten. Layed out on the breadloafbrick nachtplatz now, his mouth laced dry, swirled raw with cobblestone crumbs and chewing tobacco, he could not find Goethe. He could not find Freud. He could not find his daughter. Nietzche was dead. His ear picked up Wagner. His soul weeped poltergiests. His blue heart was missing. No roadbeat on that street. Little compassion and no tolerance for the less fortunate or for his foreign leavings.

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