I cross the street to avoid passersby of the past
on my way to an art gallery in Chicago.
I’ve been here before.
Varicolored lights surround works dedicated to me,
 a fictitious queen.  
I’ve seen them before;
numerous portraits adorned with shy roses,
slight reminders of great writers and great moments,
scarlet smiles and spiders at my disposal,
blessings and half-serious proposals,
hanging skeletons which once belonged
to those chosen people,
stark smoke from premium cigarettes
in place of candles,
yards of bloodied barbed wire
and fragments of looking-glass,
gold rings and teeth of various war-torn nations,
and six hours of speaking to apparitions
of my own hallucination.
I’ve been here before.