dreamwrite 7
you’ve misunderstood me, it’s not about that
well then tell me what it is about, because the green and black
spinning fabrics are whirling in a way that makes me think of some alien thing
dancing until it is too worn to move any longer
and quietly cavorting down into the infection
of the groundwater, seeping in like dying
in little pustules and decaying fibers,
a disturbed final image of its eyeball glancing up out of the reeking pool of its demise
still glaring out into the world, beholding
skin in flecks and broken filaments, clinging
i’m fighting against a ghost
an image of something i knew a long time ago, and have in truth put behind me
but the residue of memory remains and there are things i can do to repair
the wrong telemetry
i’m not alone, but i might be,
this vacant sound echoing inside me
so strange those little moments of anxiety
crawling up my legs and down m back, making my stomach churn and my buttocks clench, afraid of something that makes no sense, my breath gasping in my chest, afraid. i am unsurprised and unmoved, i’ve forgotten what came just before, concerned now onlh with what i can bring forth from this, the whispers of voice or cave chamber echo i cannot tell, the thrum of beat designed to move my mind and open, i am in trance of my own somekindofintent design. but i get lost inside of it and there are frightening, very frightening, things lingering on the other side, and my trance not so much mine as a found resonance with some other, and it has no concern for my survival only a great potence, thrilling through me i know there i’m powerful there i’m strong, and i want to own it and know it and have it and take it with me
only there i’m not me i’m not anything at all and emulation here only comes across as posturing and silly indulgence, weak too much to handle as a simple stated fellow, instead flying into rages and full of hate and anger, just to press on the ego i would defend, having built itself in replica and false facsimile of that from the other side.
memory, perhaps, left vacant too long, this irrelevant sense of self divined from what scraps of there and other i can put together.
you’re the criminal, not i, the blond angry woman shouts
not i never i, you are the bastard who has hurt my son
i saw her holding a black bird into the sink and she was killing it. i don’t like the murder of corvids, but it was done in a remembering flash and i cannot stop what she has already done, but the trinkets in her home won’t be used as such again, diluted and destroyed i gather little clusters of them,
and through them look out at the may faces
crushed glass and the autumnal color of redorange
perhaps that was goodbye afterall, climbing into the back of that truck and waving, for a moment thinking they would too climb in and we would move on and away from whatever it was that was after her or them.
and nosir, says the strange barber in the public bathroom, a foolish grin on the face of many, i do not know arcuado as you have assumed. in truth he was here only a short while ago, but he held me beneath the sink and tried, or considered, killing me.
what good is a birthright and blessing from those who already have less than you, who could no more determine how to or what to bless of you than they can figure out what has happened to their lives, wondering at what point they got old,
a stranger’s face out of a past i have no fondness for floated and did not look at me but she still had that smile on her face and i felt now as i felt then that mild revulsion, and pressed away the image, but waking caused a jolt of dream from sleep.
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