In the morning the sound of streets goes with the cars. Tip of the dream phenomenon. There is a CD of scientists I am supposed to have listened to but haven’t. It’s called Artichoke. Rubbing my eyes, a genie appears. She takes a monkey’s paw, rubs it against the side of my face and says “Different, I’m both scientist and artist. This isn’t simply magic.” I think, I like where this is headed. She tips her head to the side in just such a way as to make her seem otherworldly, I mean alien. I say “how many?” She answers “as many lifetime allow.” She adjusts her cape and grips the bullwhip kelp strand tighter. I notice she holds it left handed. “Breathe,” she says, “you’re not breathing.” I cough and then grit my teeth. I have seen no bottles in our yard; I saw none yesterday on the beach. In the tide pools only mediaster aequalis, fransiscanus. I’d read a story before. As for wishes, I wouldn’t wish anyone dead back alive. One could never be sure with genies in what condition wished for things would arrive.