Not see become

the interrogator
the process of torture
born out of a dream
long ago in Morocco
he studies me patiently
states he wishes to add a chapter
to our mutual exploration of pain
much like the Waterfall and Monkeys of Zeshin
or the Scroll of the Nine Dragons by Chen Rong
you know these, of course
framed images in the room now
he indicates Zeshin
note the water is unpainted
it is not even there
the lines of ink
merely contain the absence
the most dynamic, energetic
moments are the most empty
the paper underneath
unpainted, untouched
he passes his hand lightly
over the rocks below the monkeys
you can almost feel the water
rushing through your fingers
he walks over to the wall length scroll
now observe the dragons
swirling out of the spirals
of mist, of fog, of clouds, of time
of nothing
again everything is born
out of this nothing
you can see the dragons
clawing their way through
almost fighting their way out of it
this self-knowledge of having been created
conjured, summoned into form
note how the dragons grasp hold
of this nothing
in particular the one to the right of the central vortex
holding what appears to be a crystal ball
a circle containing all of the energies of time
what is most powerful
is the absence of anything
within the circle
the paper, the background,
the ground of being we take for granted
is all that is within this sphere
being held within the dragon's claws
I say nothing
he studies me
says, perhaps I am belaboring my point
he motions to two guards next to me
they lift me up and place me
into a trunk full of cotton wadding
my hands and my feet are bound with rope
I am curled into a fetal position
in order to fit tightly within the trunk
cotton wadding is packed tightly
around my body
it is impossible to move
the interrogator sits in a chair
leans over so his face is close to mine
it is almost comfortable
he takes small pieces of cotton
packs them tightly around my head
says, one might imagine the womb
and here he places a black rubber device in my mouth
a long tube runs into a coil he holds in his hand
he fastens a buckle around my head
holding the device in my mouth
he takes two pieces of cotton
and gently inserts them into my nose
the tubing is narrow
and it difficult to get enough breath
he continues to place cotton
all around, packing me tightly into the trunk
I am trying to get enough air
he whispers into my ear
it is important that you not panic
I want, he tells me, you to imagine
the negative space of Zeshin
to know the power of the dragons
to understand in a profound and intimate sense
how much energy is contained within
the absence of a thing
that is always present
and here the lid of the trunk is closed
and I can hear latches being locked
it is becoming hot
I am trying not to panic
to remain calm
to not let him win
to not allow him to break me
the trunk is lifted
and turned so I am now head down
I feel all of my blood
pushing into my skull
I breath through the narrow tube
as evenly as possible
I am very hot
sweat pooling in my ears
trying to breath more air
seems to constrict the rubber tube
so I have to force myself to take slow breaths
suddenly there is no air
I cannot breath in or out
I can see the Interrogator in my mind
casually holding the end of the tube shut
between his thumb and finger
as he contemplates
the Japanese prints in the wall
on the verge of passing out
he releases his grip
I am so desperate for air
that the tube seems always sucked shut
I have to slow my breathing
my blood is pounding in my head
I seems to float in this thick and suffocating
cotton womb tomb
the Interrogator repeats this process
of asphyxiation over and over
keeping me conscious
but with never enough air
but with just enough
I long to either pass out
to die
or for just one last time
to breathe deeply
just one last breath
I imagine the Waterfall with Monkeys
the empty spaces between the water
full of space of air of nothing
I long to breath in that nothingness
and like those images
where the foreground is hidden in the background
I suddenly see the dragon
not see
become

Says it is a cat

complicated and involved scenario
old co-workers and customers
from the coffee shop
set around this time of year
Christmas lights put up
spelling out with bad letters
my sisters initials and mine
in the garage
I discover a caterpillar centipede creature
crawling on a table
it has huge antler pinchers
it is pure white
the antlers are black
it's body is about six inches long
the antlers are about the same length
I call the co-worker over to take a look
use a stick to prod the creature
it grabs the stick with some force
pulls it away from me
retreating back across the table
with it in its pinchers
I try to grab it back
and it moves it away from me
I am careful not to get stung / bit
then it becomes a white cat
with a black caterpillar centipede
in its mouth
and I am worried
it will try to eat the insect
and get stung
I am running around
trying to get it to spit the insect out
I say it is so fast
it moves like a cat
and the co-worker laughs
says it is a cat

I noticed a lot of fallen leaves

a gentle soul
an an artist, DW
a man who used to paint watercolors
in the coffeeshops and bars
gives me a ride
I wasn't hitchhiking
he saw me on the side of the road
I was heading to a Mexican Food place
in a strip mall
as he was driving
he somehow
was able to place
one of his bare feet
against my face
his feet were clean
didn't smell
I acted as if it were nothing
then he moves the foot around
to block my eyes
I moved my head
no wanting to offend him
he seemed amused
at my response
this went on for the entire ride
I complimented him
on what nice feet he had
I was still grateful
for the ride
and it was good to see him again
after he dropped me off
I was in a stranger's backyard
I knew that I had to go
to caregiving soon
and would be right back
but I wanted to see
how the seeds I had planted
were doing
my sister and mother
had placed little signs
indication what each seed was
a few had sprouted
I noticed a lot
of fallen leaves
around the yard

Like I appeared from nowhere

somewhere in Africa
at a rural school
students, teachers, dream people
making audio recordings
part of a class project
I am out in the savannah
red dry dirt
thorny scrub bush
recording sounds from a small nest
several feet away
I hear movement
a larger animal
I freeze listening
through the amplification
of the microphone
a lion cub emerges
from the bush
he is playful
doesn't seem to notice me
I realize they are listening
back at the school
whisper there's a lion
I back slowly away from the nest
which now is a small tree stump
I am about ten feet away
the cub rubs his face on the stump
then his ass and balls
I can see his penis emerge
marking the territory
now I hear an adult lion
stirring in the brush
I keep backing away
they still haven't noticed me
I can smell the rut of the lion
the animal odor of the fur
I keep thinking
if I walk slowly backwards
never turning my back on them
trying not to stumble
I will not be attacked
still no sign of the adult lion
but I can sense it is right there
if it emerges while I am close
it will attack me
when I am about 100 yards away
I finally turn the other way
I turn and begin to run
now it seems I can hear
what is going on at the school
sounds of chaos and terror
I worry the lion
has found the school
I come to a road
I am standing on an embankment
above the road
a strange creature
like nothing I have seen before
pale white with more than four legs
fur and hide
is lumbering downy the road
I don't know if it will attack me
when I jump down
if it is like a lion
or it it is like a cow
I jump down
and am relieved to realize
it is more like a cow
it just stares at me
like I appeared from nowhere

We are all joking around

another investigation
convoluted complex
tracking down the killer(s)
one of the investigators
is in the bathroom
putting on golden hair dye
like the killer
to show how it was done
we are all joking around
with each other

The gruesome investigation

out in the country
summer camp scenario
a lake near Dallas
a group of old friends
now police investigators
come out there
because of a mass murder
I am out there
for complicated reasons
but I am not the murderer
I know if they find me
they will think
I murdered everyone
so I am hiding from them
more police arrive
and head into
the interior of the camp
my friends are leaving
handing over
the gruesome investigation
I take this opportunity
to try and escape
while I am hiding behind a car
a tiny portable radio catches
the wavelength of the station
and starts playing music
I silence it
no one has heard it
but a few seem to look over
in my direction
I get the car started
and tear out over the fields
as I am driving
out onto the road
I see the several men and women
and I know they
are the true murderers
but I need to reach my friends
before they do
and tell them
my side of the story

The sanctity of the creative process

on a tour
JGM there with me
writing a book or an article
everyone
always waiting for me to do
something outrageous
easily scandalized
as if the two of us are onstage
she and I are arguing
about who is going
to take a shower in the morning
later one of the kids
not ours
comes in with a friend
starts reading from one of her articles
I stop him
saying something about
the sanctity of the creative process
he starts to mock me
I tell him to finish this sentence
"after he set the book down
his pants were around his ankles..."
his friend laughs
the kids leave

A museum where all the works have vanished leaving only the signs behind

something astonishing
mnemonics setting up
within a vague preconsciousness
a delicate sense of holding
the entire world
as a shattered egg shell
not entirely fallen apart
yet
but in that tender moment
even the softest light
of consciousness
becomes everything
it centers the world around it
its intention
the focus
remember
the rewriting of one of
Shakespeare's plays
the tempest on a tortoise shell
enough to bring it all back
but it is not
only the mnemonic remains
enigmatic souvenir sign
what was once under the painting
the painting itself now gone
a museum where all the works
have vanished
leaving only the signs behind
sorrow upon awakening
holding the mind
still and quiet
barely breathing
watching for shapes within
the grainy shadows
the mists of the dream
dissipating with each dawning moment
of disappointment
in the failure of memory

How utterly unremarkable it all is

waiting for someone to die
passing time
at the old bar in Austin
employee meeting
in the morning
customers and other employees
coming in after a night of drinking
I have been away
visiting friends
at an Ivy League University
many customers
believe I went there
because I was leaving to attend
they are tipping me extra
to help with the tuition
JGM and I are working together
waiting for Emac
he comes in
tells me he has new guidelines
everyone must give a pint of blood
in order to keep their job
I am trying to explain
it is against the law
you can't force employees
to give blood
and my blood
for example
is toxic
he is not listening
wants me to gather up everyone
and take them behind
the jack in the box
down the street
I am waiting on whomever
is going to work while
we are all meeting
she comes in late
riding a bicycle
I think her name is Marcie
but am not sure
don't really know her
I say her name anyway
what seems most remarkable
to me about all of this
is how utterly unremarkable
it all is

Complicated stories being told

elusive narratives
a series of disconnected
fragments of my days
on Margate Sands
over several nights
themes orbiting around
an abandoned school
elementary particles
older selves
the once discarded
now recollected
archetypal constructions
names repeated
faces reflected in
facing mirrors
doubling elaborations
these monster ghosts
and a vague sense
of divinity
upon awakening
these complicated stories
idiot mythologies
being whispered to me
behind the painted curtain
of the scenery
just beyond the reach
of memory

Anagogy: And the blind eye creates

The source of dreams is unknowable. Always beyond our understanding. We want to say: deeper than our understanding (emptying phrase). The dreams seem to arise out of some Ur- foundation of our being, primal, ineffable, defiant of the limitations of language and, to a lesser extent, imagining itself. Dreams emerge into consciousnes out of shadow and depth.

Our consciousness sits trembling, a poor beast on the threshold, safely housed within our conception of self. The dream resolves out of the Dark Wilderness in increments of wonder. The bonds of sleep hold us to our vision, Odysseus tied to the mast before the Sirens. We cannot look away,  whether this be through fear or fascination - or a charmed mixture of both.

There is no actual sensation. All arises from within. The fabric of our vision has been woven by ourselves alone. This is the inward perception, shadows dancing on the cave walls of our skull. All too quickly, we conceive the story, the narrative, imposing meaning on mystery. The rags and poor vestments of our imagination are fitted quickly upon, instantaneously giving substance to, the shadows of the dream. There is a stage now. There is an actor. And another. Dialogue. The ancient drama unfolds before us, now the audience. All of this in a quicksilver shimmer. It is a great mystery of our being.

And so the writing down of dreams is always suspect. The tendency to gloss over, to amend lacunae, shape into narratives - transforming nonsense into sense. Still, even through this, the mystery remains. Often it is that aspect of the dream we thought insignificant, that one detail we almost neglected to include. Nevertheless, by writing down dreams we subject them to a reduction, a Procrustian process of interpretive (pornographic) writing. These symbols in argument with each other upon the fire-lit stage of our interior cavern, this drama will not confine itself to even the broadest of linguistic mis-prisons.

But we want to remember. We want to understand what this nightly drama is trying to tell us. But who says it is for us to know what dramas engage our archetypal beings? Who amongst us can translate the thunder and the lightning? But we want to remember. A sad prayer whispered into the wind by the monk desolate in the Desert. Oh God, please speak to me. And so, he dreams.

The unknowable cannot be written. And once the Dream is aware that we are sitting out there in the audience with pen and paper, scribbling feverishly before the Mystery, then the Dream changes, refigures itself to fit our sorry horde of words, as the radiant king removes his robes and takes on the rags of the lowliest beggar. Greek tragedy becomes a banal television sitcom. More insidious, the Dream takes on the attitude of the ally, the friend, the helpful guide when it it actually the adversary. Satan, Mephistopheles, Iago, Kaa, Gollum. This is the dreadful masquerade. They encourage and strengthen our resolve to penetrate the mystery of the Dream. Always there with the helpful word or phrase at hand, whispering poisonous instructions to our attention, hand on elbow, false Vergils, leading us into the pit of mis-understanding.

We cannot trust ourselves: we, who rationalize and lie and in every moment or our daily lives drain our words of all their blood. And so, what are we left with?

What remains is war. There is no trust in words anymore. We must use them as tools to immediately discard, knowing that to use a tool found within the illusion only strengthens the baseless fabric of that illusion. Long ago: faith was broken. The words can dance before us on the page, a thousand mirrors full of our reflected hopes, each letter a cage within which sings a tiny fragment of our soul, singing only because it is imprisoned. Keats' nightingale forever trapped in its melodious plot of beechen green and shadows numberless.

What also remains is the Dream. For it is everything. And however mindlessly we spend our time, we must pay attention to it. For in this dark and empty world, it is the one of the only lights we regularly are able to find. Every night, we sit in the cave of ourself and stare into its fires, watching the drama of our Self unfolding....

But we must be careful what we say...

Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

- T. S. Eliot, Ash Wednesday (fragment)

He wants me to reveal his skull

I am interrogating a prisoner
a captive
a figure from the other side
there is another there
we place the man
in a device that fits around his face
the interior is full of razor blades
once on
these blades will slowly cut
all the skin from his skull
the prisoner know this
and he is happy
with the knowledge
of what I am
getting ready to do to him
I think
perhaps with slight awakening
this is his strategy:
he wants me to reveal his skull

Because I am Hamlet

the production of a play
high school reunion
LB was the director
I was in the lead role
an amalgamation
of Hamlet and contemporary themes
LB there with husband
and an old friend
who I didn't recognize
he had just had a sort of throat surgery
a new fashionable thing
where he mouth was removed
and skin grafted over the hole
I kept trying to make him laugh
tear the hole open
we are in a large modern performance hall
everything is chaotic
I am confident and happy
full of mischief
LB leaves to go to the store
across the street
the play is supposed to start
there is no clear delineation
between the audience and the stage
I clear out a space
I am wearing headphones
listening to the sound of the wind
while I am playing
an exposed set of strings
a deconstructed grand piano
with a rack of long tubular bells
making harmonic feedback
by placing them close together
I take off the headphones
and realize the sound
was not as harmonious as I thought
but I am greatly amused
the audience does not know
what to think
LB is still not there
I go to look for her
find her in the bathroom
the friend with no mouth is there
I tell him a joke
that makes him laugh
almost tearing open the hole
I can see the outline of his lips
his wife is mad at me
LB comes out
ready to begin the play
I am moving signs and props
to an arbitrary back stage
the audience believes all of the movement
is part of the play
I have the feeling
that I am not doing a good job
but everyone believes I am
because I am Hamlet

But then the glass breaks

a university
performance hall
an old friend who teaches
trying to see the performance
end up going back to her house
a long discussion in a small room
the middle of the night
our figures are elongated
as if we were drawn by El Greco
we start to kiss
but I am aware her husband
is in the kitchen now
opening a drawer
it doesn't seem important to her
and I can't tell
if it is because she doesn't care
or if it is because he doesn't care
I run to a small window
too small for me to fit through
and try to jump outside
into the garden
I am stuck for a moment
but then the glass breaks

I believe the storyteller / magician is a secret agent

long complicated conspiracy
attempts to save someone
only remember the last fragment
was told by a woman
to go to the library
couldn't get away
so I sent S.
an old employee from the coffee shop
gave him instructions
on what to look up
a revelatory genealogy
told him I would be right behind him
sense of urgency
after he left
the woman told me to note the path
I had traveled on the island
scene now Anacortes
if I looked on a map of the city
I could trace the figure of infinity
in my footsteps
I get to the library
there is a sign on the door
to be quiet
because a storyteller / magician was performing
walk in
large group of parents and kids
old and young
See S. in the next room
not the normal circulation room
he is excited
wanting to show me something in an old book
I can't get to him because of the crowd
and I believe the storyteller / magician is a secret agent

But i sense that he is here to tell me something

walking along a dam
some sort of reservoir
I look down and see an old friend
who I used to coach in football
he has long white hair
he is standing at the top of a stairway
I stand above him
call to him and start down a steep stairway
then fall forward
off balance
and nearly fall
I catch myself just in time
we laugh together in relief
he climbs up
with him are a group of young hippies
he had told them stories about me
one of the girls is sitting on my lap
not seductively
but as a daughter would with a father
I am dismayed at this
but know it is appropriate
she keeps wanting me to tell her stories
I look over to my friend
he is watching
listening to see what I will say
but i sense that he is here to tell me something
and is waiting to see when I am ready to hear it

My head is filled with an apocalyptic vertigo

a variation of the house on 16th street
looking out my window
over the ocean
see a tidal wave approaching
growing enormous
cresting over as it surges inland
boats, cars and people falling over the edge
the wave crashes down below
but I know the water will rise up to us
I think I should retreat
to a high place inside my room
then realize that it will be under water
I go outside in front of the garage
searching for a higher place of safety
my sister is there
We retreat to the interior of the garage
and close the doors to break the crash
of the first wave
the doors start to break apart
but hold enough to allow us to get out
and find another place of safety
my sister sees a dog running through the yard
and goes to get it
I try to call her back
I can see another wave building
out beyond islands
a swelling darkness rising above them
I know this wave will sweep directly into us
I am calling my sister
telling her the dog will be all right
we move to higher ground
find her husband
he tells us most of the houses below
most of the land
have been swept away
now there is a collapsing cliff
that the waves are crashing into
each waves seems larger than the last
R and I are now driving down above the cliff
looking at the damage
my head is filled with an apocalyptic vertigo
R is concerned about some of his property
we get out by some apartments
the back half is gone
fallen into the sea below the cliff
it seems like we are safe
but I can see another wave
more monstrous than all the rest
coming towards us
we are on a cliff
thousands of feet above the sea now
and I know the wave will swamp us
I imagine the continent had tilted
I know nothing will be the same ever again
I imagine most of the West coast is gone
R is not paying attention to me
he is talking with a survivor
water is rising
it will be impossible to drive away
I turn towards the mountains
in the distance I can see volcanos erupting
I wonder if there is anyplace to go anymore

Hovering illuminated in the air

coordinated effort by family, friend, group
to either fly a ship away from a hostile place
back to safety
or fly into a new world
with no knowledge of what may come
training for this
one of us in the group
figuring out that it would be easier
to communicate with the ship
via a form of mental shorthand
the symbols now
hovering illuminated in the air
before me
mix of the Kabbalah - which I do not know
Hebrew - which I do not know
and shorthand - which I do not know

waking towards consciousness
musing over the symbols
as a dream shorthand
a language of god
a bridge to the unconscious

Wondering how I got distracted from BBQ

in Dallas, Texas
searching for BBQ downtown
amongst the old buildings
mirrored exteriors
heavy dark wood interiors
silent elevators
the doors open on an expensive room
I step out
realize I am in the wrong place
my mind is troubled
two of the Good Time Girls are there
S and M
they call me over to the table
ask me to sit and share drinks
they are full of historical gossip
I break in more frequently
with what they perceive
as increasingly inappropriate language
but I believe I am speaking the truth
S takes offense
at first I think she is joking
but she gets up from the table and leaves
I believe that later
she will understand the reasons for my behavior
I get up and leave a $20
then take it back and leave a $50
saying to M
tell S I am sorry
y'all have a couple of drinks on me
I walk towards the elevator
wondering how I got distracted from BBQ

The inner light through the interior woods

paranoia about surveillance
multiple identities
several vehicles for each
working to be happy
in this bleak world
finding a dark path
through the dark night
insisting upon genius
character not exceptional
the inner light through the interior woods
following bliss
discussions about the word
the echo with kiss
the intimations of bless, blessing
the aftertaste of blister
there needs to be a better word
to follow

One of the girls is a cyclops

an old clapboard house
in Austin
ex-wife lives there
with some of her friends
shifts between my living there
another guy,
a foreigner also there
a person not to be trusted
the last measures of a party
everyone drunk
waiting to leave
next door is a bar
very dilapidated
falling down, dirty
last call
go over to get a drink
with an friend from FringeWare
he doesn't drink
but I want to him to order
so I will have two drinks
for myself
I go in the other room
when I return he is gone
girls sitting at the table
I think one is someone I know
but I am mistaken
one of the girls is a cyclops
but when I look back
she is normal
I order another drink
a young girl sits at the table
wants to sip my drink
we have to leave
I return to the house
everyone is asleep
I am cleaning up
find a piece of paper
that plays music
I throw it in the trash
the music is getting louder
I am worried about waking everyone up
take the trash can outside
there are a lot of tups and buckets
in the living room
around the record player
there is a David Bowie album
a lot CDs in the wrong cases
I suspect the male roommate
who seems German now
of messing things up
again the music becomes too loud
I turn it off
there are plants in the tubs and buckets
hot water is running all of a sudden
making lots of noise
I find the rubber tube
with the water
amidst a tangle of tubes
tie a knot in it
try to hold it
until I can turn it off
at the wall
I can still hear the water running
but the black rubber hose
is disconnected and on the floor
I am trying to drain the water
from the tubs into cups and glasses
left over from the party
to keep the plants from dying
from over-watering
frantically running around
filling up cups
someone wakes up
is stumbling out to see
what all the commotion is about

Auditory Hallucinations

most often, knocking at the door
usually, soft tapping
occasionally, police-like pounding
sometimes, apocalyptic thunder
the earth quaking
breaking in two
or my name in casual conversation
my mother's insistent call
get up! wake up!
a lover's whisper
beside my head on the pillow
or an overheard curse
malicious gossip
barks of dogs
birdsongs
gull's cries
eagle's screams
purgatorial crickets in the room
the clicks of the spider's spinners
weaving a web
the moth's desperate sigh
the ravening avarice of the roach
dry lightning in the brain
with no thunder
just a charged silence
hanging in the absence
like a ghost

Vector: Robertson Davies' Deptford Trilogy :: Werner Herzog's Cave of Forgotten Dreams

The Cave of the Bear in the Manticore:

Ramsay's confessional narrative in Fifth Business advances from his instinctive repudiation of Presbyterian Christianity, through his infatuation with the miracles of his Fool Saint and his scholarly work on recognized saints, to a final position in which he pledges allegiance "to the mountain castle Sorgenfrie and the anima-ogre who lives there" as I expressed it earlier. In the Manticore, having completed his year-long Jungian analysis, David accompanies Liselotte into the bear cave where, "not less than seventy-five thousand years ago" men "sacrificed and at of the noblest thing they could conceive, hoping to share in its virtue, "and in that cave flings herself "face down before the skulls of bears" in fervent prayer before returning to Sorgenfrei for Christmas Day.  - From Aspects of Robertson Davies's Novels By Victor J. Lams

Herzog's Cave of Forgotten Dreams

The soft, clay-like floor of the cave retains the paw prints of cave bears along with large, rounded, depressions that are believed to be the "nests" where the bears slept. Fossilized bones are abundant and include the skulls of cave bears and the horned skull of an ibex. - Wikipedia

Dudley Young's Origin of the Sacred

The one I want to murder has something that is mine (or that I absolutely intend to make mine) and the obvious way to achieve this is to incorporate him, enfold him in my arms and hug him "to death" in a closure of the visible. Thus the call-sign of the murderer is, as Othello said, "Put out the light," and its primitive conclusion is cannibalism. Mutilation, on the contrary, is only interested in the mutilated body as a vehicle for divine epiphany, which as the word suggests, is what appears between the mutilated flesh and the eye that beholds it....

There is some evidence for this conjecture from what we know of ritual cannibalism where the body is first mutilated, then incorporated. In Polynesia Captain Cook witnessed a human sacrifice that ended with the victim's left eye being presented to the lips of the king....

Thus concludes the argument that began... with my assertion that the mutilating cruelty that opens our eyes to the monstrous epiphanies of the sacrificial divinity is properly canceled, preserved, and redemptively transformed in the elaboration of a harness for the our sacrificial instincts, not in some rationalist attempt to close the door on them; and moreover that the harness is to be sought within those instincts, and not elsewhere.

The woman at the Memory Center:

You mother told me she has a nickname for you...

Resisting the urge to write this dream down

sitting next to a local female poet
idly updating contacts on my phone
her name comes up
I add information about her
from a passing conversation
we had with each other
I casually mention it to her
she becomes upset
thinking I am stalking her
I try to reassure her
but she will have none of it
another poet comes over to calm her
but the local poet is now scared and angry
gathers her things to leave
I tell her I never meant
to do anything to upset her

I felt a light touch upon my shoulder
waking my from the dream
I imagined the legs of a spider
but it was nothing

I lay there for a long while
resisting the urge to write this dream down