During certain November days, winter presaging its arrival, gray masses of cloud carry a hint of time running odd angles to our own, the time lovers sense when first meeting and mortal enemies dream in. On this plane we tremor from contact, only live breath to moment to brown leaves in the late autumn wind. People who never live in the same moment may speak in dark bars on the corner for hours in this time, smoke punctuating silences left for dramatic effect while a juke box carries a beat and beer foams at the mouth of bottles. Lee Harvey Oswald, for instance, leans into Jeffrey Dahmer, their breaths foul with beer as he slowly exposes the conspiracy. Dahmer clears his throat. Oswald hooks his lies through Dahmer's eyes. Dahmer becomes distracted at the thought of blood. Not noticing that here, Oswald grins, Dahmer lifts his bloody face from a plate where he has consumed internal organs, fat, muscle, bone marrow. Oswald shakes his head. A legless acrobat somersaults around the room, his tattoos twirling a story of November storms. I strain from my seat, lean towards their table. I want to hear the name they will speak to know what horror will come. Who masterminded their lives? They stare at me, Are you ready? After I scrawl a few notes more, they ask again. Is the poem done? Make them feel holy, like heroes, they say. Make it an epic, they tell me.