Tag Archives: dreams

Free will is a dream you must wake up from to attain.

14 Nov

From the left seat I can see that you were right

11 Nov

I reside in heavens

when we fly it’s very clear

the bigger organism we

are apart of/from up

here/now vision clouded

with/by ether, our lives below

the bible thumping belt, so rare

did you think I wasn’t looking when you quietly ordered

yourself back into submission from the menu

or was that for those to whom you say life is good like comfort food for breakfast

on saturday just before noon in our pajamas with the radio playing/the smell of grease

and gasoline in your hair, citrus on the wind

real maple syrup and bacon/your favorite

race on television. We did things

on that leather couch that would embarrass the children if they existed

we spooned entire days into a bowling ball bag

you won/lost, as if we had nothing

more important to do than touch each other until we did

or maybe we only manufactured that/you

came down from your mountain-top to pull me up

and I was so grateful I gave you things

to desire instead

of me/but when I called down to you from mine

you couldn’t hear me any more

than when I used to tell you

I had a dream

in the night/you reached

out for me from your

fear of light/sleepers

women pilots

weak people

distrust

and we would fly

blindly, madly

in love with passenger seats, advanced

stall warning recovery

whether predictions

down-shifting, flights planned

restricted/visual ceiling fan rules

taking precedence under the covers

your feet my pedals

clutching, crabbing

our forte

negative g-forced

free fall

Watermelon Seeds and Whales

17 Oct

At our current astral position

in orbit

around uncomfortable subjects

not to mention disobedient

don’t stomp a get worse on the snout

we centered ourselves, grounded the

teenagers, micro waved hello our pot

pies and sat down for being swallowed

blubber bellied blue light globules

in the splash zone between the living

room walls

’round n’ round we go

where the dying starts

nobody knows

it all looks the same from up here

some of us want out

some get spit out

all the rest’ll

be digested

monetarily momentarily

everything comes out again eventually

everyone knows it’s not about the destination

question is

will you take the large intestinal journey

or the intentional one

two

three

four

we don’t need no stinking doors

five

six

seven

eight

there’s no such thing as it’s too late

Mi pequeño ángel

Where have all the angels gone?

A Certain Feeling

16 Oct

There’s a certain feeling  I get, knowing you were in my bed with me last night. It doesn’t even matter that you may never be again. Because tonight I can smell you on my pillows and this morning I laughed as I realized the extraneous patience I had for untangling the sideways blanket and sheets while making the bed which you do so much more efficiently than me.

Too bad we slept in this morning. I’m happy you traded breakfast for that new position though. Reminds me of a pair of scissors when I look back at your hands on my hips. Your body splitting me in two at the waist. The dreamy gaze your eyes blink back when you hit the snooze button one more time and the spot that makes us both gasp and smile warm, cottony smiles at each other as we pull back the sheets again.

In fact, I’m glad you’re not here. It gives me time to remember the way you laced your fingers in mine as we sweat ourselves to sleep. How you asked me to come for you again and again because you like it. How hard you worked not to. How you leaned in for one last kiss before unconsciousness took over. How you pulled me close entwining your legs with my legs, your feet with my feet.

I like it like that. One for you and four for me. Although, if you were here I would have proof it was not a dream. And if it was, I am so glad I am right here in the perfect place to recreate it. Here again in my bed, the sheets now neatly tucked under the pillow on one side. My hands are your hands between my legs. I’m wet just thinking about you but you know that from experience.

The fruit was good. Thank you. Last night your flesh was a ripe, purple plum between my teeth and this morning I ate you again for breakfast.

A man, a plan – Panama

14 Oct

Damn, if he doesn’t look just like you

He will

I left room in my life for someone

Like you

Planned your life

In spite of

Or despite

Someone like me

Maybe now that she sees

How happy you are

She will

Come back

In time

You might too

Eventually, someday, maybe

She might find

A man with a plan

Same as me

With a little cut-out in the shape of a heart

Just like hers

So she can close the book

Slide it back into the empty spot

Where it belongs

And be content

With someone

Just like

We planned

jardin botanica

aibohphobia n. The fear of palindromes.

Mother What Have You Done?

1 Oct

You crouched behind a rock

Holding the first one

An egg cradled

In your armor

Your amour

The second one was stronger

More like you

Independent, instinctually intelligent

You placed

The third one in his arms when

You thought

It died

For you

Mother, why

Set me to float away

On this dream of love

I’m still alive

It says downstream

With the voice of a man

Exactly

But he doesn’t want to leave

Just yet

No one really does

Chapter 3 – The Silver Flute, Pt. 4

30 Sep

As I glanced back at her body sprawled in the death grip from what must have been some type of yoga position; I wonder about her family and how her obituary might read. What is this? A book, no – a journal! Fantastic discovery, Dawn says. Snapping me out of wherever it is I have just been. It is surprisingly blood free, so I pick it up and begin to flip through the pages. The last entry is an exact account of all that has occurred thus far in our investigation. It is titled: “A Dream 07/01/1995”. Today is July 25, 1995. She is a poet. For some reason I am not startled by this information. It only serves to make me curious enough to read the rest of the book. I find another entry marked 07/21/1995 – “Obituaries”. I am beginning to feel a little distressed, but I keep my calm and read on. She wishes in the event of her death at her obituary read as follows:

“The last true dreamer died today. Survived by the rest of her family. She was a self-proclaimed child of the night, saver of small fortunes, does of kind and noble deeds, a loving sister, daughter and niece. She was a poetess who now resides in the land of the muses. She loved passionately and lived fully. When she was awake. She once was lost, but now she is found. May the lord have mercy on her soul.”

Not a bad idea any more to write your own obituary. The papers print such a dismal account of all the day’s news. It has to be a difficult job. The last rights of so and so. Funeral services to be held at blank and keeping track of all those names. She says tragedy takes precedence over happiness. Where on earth is that sweet voice coming from? I feel like I am going mad with all this new prose acting up in my head. Dawn doesn’t even notice as I fall back against the stone wall that once held her shadow and slide spastically if not slowly to the cool, damp earth.

My conscience plays tricks on me. The aquarium light is off, yet the fish swim on. I will sleep. Allusion is pillow. The haunting pages of a young woman’s journal my security blanket. Dreams of youth, my night light. She seeks shelter in a hollow house, in a frameless bed. My health is failing. She is beginning to die a solitary death in a white dress in a deep forest. The flowers of my childhood are tangled in her hair. I dread the feeling of her fingers—stiff and lifeless against the living world. My soul a silhouette. My dream of a perfect being shot down by the whims of society. Efforts gained and lost again. There was a time when I was truly happy and then I peered into the stained glass window and I witnessed reality. It impressed myself upon me stretching my skin until I thought, I am an old woman, mother of no child at 18 years old my body hates me. My brain wants to sleep forever and my hands want to speak of the pain of being. Of being an old young woman and living, and living and living.

Dawn taps me on the shoulder, ever mindful of our duties at the crime scene. She cheerfully reminds me that I am holding elutriated evidence with ungloved hands. I am in awe, completely and utterly shocked by what I am experiencing but I do not want to miss a minute of it. So, I put on some rubber gloves that make my hands reek for the rest of the day and continue with my private investigations.

So far, I have gathered that she is a seriously lonely girl, intensely sensitive to her environment, slightly paranoid and definitely intelligent. Her entire life is mapped out in this one book; seemingly for the singular purpose of entertaining friends and lovers or her younger sisters or herself. She writes of their future with uncertainty and reminds them of the lessons she has learned along the way. I am beginning to feel the guilt of an eavesdropped rating undue credit for a rumor I had not even heard until – Hey, have you heard? The lion swallowed the fly as the spider entered the stadium and the crowd roared.

My ears are hot with the echo of an eerie lullaby I overheard a mother singing to her child in the cemetery. I am alone in what seems to be an ancient Egyptian tomb. How did I get here? From the glyphs on the wall – Isis, Osiris, Horace the hawk I place myself in the Valley of the Kings. It is cool and dry and the sweat under my arms gives me a chill. There is a resonance to this place although I have a clue to its source. The room is carved in solid rock and I feel I am standing on the dust of the ages. This place has been preserved for over 5,000 years, yet it is far from deserted. A nubile energy permeates the air and fills my head with grand delusional possibilities.

I am queen of all I see, ruler indubitably. On my head a crown of dogwood carved in precious ruby, emerald and diamond gemstone. Oh! My virtuosity. My manhood! Gone in an instant. What is this? Some new illness? I can only hope. My head is filled with a strange apathy. I am drowning in a pool of blood that seeps up through the soles of my shoes into the hem of my pant legs.

Chapter 3 – The Silver Flute, Pt. 1

26 Sep

This is the story of a young woman who discovers that the mystery of life lies not in death but in the desire to live.

Like most people her age, she is deeply depressed by the current standard of living ie. those established by mainstream society to achieve the “American Dream”. Or maybe she is just the laziest sun ever risen. She feels the nineties have nothing offer. Money means debt in her middle class world of woe. She sighs, thinking of time past and wishes for a more romantic age. In these pages you will travel with her on her quest for a reason to exist, however far from suicidal she believes herself to be.

Life is a series of ironic jokes and disappointments to her. It is difficult to decide whether she should laugh or cry most of the time. Death is the worst joke of them all. Hell is reserved for people stuck on earth and heaven is what you make it. This is a mystery.

The Silver flute gave her confidence and put a song on her lips and she strode toward her favorite midnight meeting place. The neighborhood was not such that young women like her should feel secure, but she did. In fact, she felt safest in the middle of the road because if it was anybody’s territory – it was hers. Besides, a good solid silver flute hung over her right shoulder to be wielded as a weapon if ever she came upon trouble.

Not many things in her life gave her such a feeling of self-possession. At the age of 21, she was constantly reminding herself of reality. In high school she thought herself a loner in the midst of the popular crowd. An entire existence was birthed for her then, along with its twin—a passionate nature that would cause her much grief. She led her life as an Miller-Burroughs inspired adventure of the seediest kind. Her classmates were often under the impression she was stoned and she did nothing to disway them. Perhaps she felt her cover was better kept under a cloak of narcotic bliss otherwise known as sheer stupidity.

Furthest from the truth is what she shared with those she thought to be below her because the truth is we come from people much, much better than we are now. Or so her devastatingly shameful parents explained to her when she came home high again on their example, but all parents are equally disappointing to their teenage children. It wasn’t that her mother and father weren’t good to her. They gave her everything she ever asked for.  She was the only girl in her class with both of her original parents which has to count for something. The house was nice and mom always kept a beautiful garden in the front yard perfect for picking flowers for the teacher on the way to school.

It must have been a stigma – too much television and not enough veggies. She once smashed a roach on the forest green and gold shag carpet in her room and before she could find the nerve to pick it up and throw it away there were a thousand-trillion baby roaches feasting away on their own mother. Soon after, she packed up her Barbies and decided to move.

Her flute had been a gift from a friend of the family. Upon hearing her play he told her he could not keep such a fine, expensive instrument for himself – a mere novice. Yeah, he talked like that. But he was cool and he rode a Harley so it wasn’t like he was gay or anything and even if he was, well hell that would be cool too because he was big. Like, I’ll kick your ass just for looking at me sideways big thought I’m certain he never had to raise a hand because one look would have been enough.

To be continued…

Chapter 3 – Hero

15 Sep

Interference

Clearance

Atop a sky rise

We were blind to his demise

Leaping toward a concrete grave

From a certain mortal disappearance

No citizen could save

Until he came along

Tall and strong

In birdlike flight

He swooped the man up

As we cried with delight

Then horror again

As the shouts out

Just let me die!

Our hero drops him

Chapter 3 – Clap

14 Sep

The roses grew impatiently

Folding their limbs to passers by

Lifting lids for light alone

Revealing sweet tornado eyes

Catching my secret glances

Sparks fly.

Precious core of you

Apple seeds

Man with one-thousand tattoos

An opera singer dreams

While the rock star screams

They are lovers

Sleeping not so silently together

Bodies four-legged and entwined

Flip/flop

Not kind

My hair is on fire

While my face cracks with the cold

Snap!

Play that harmonica

Patty cake game

Clap!

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