To take something away from him

a high-school girlfriend
years later in a cheap motel
shifts to a rundown dorm
another highschool friend
the one who died
sick in a room down the hall
I never see him
the girl is taking care of
the one who died
I suspect they are fucking
the door is open to my room
I am writing at a desk
I can see down the hall
I can hear the one who died
the girl has told me
to meet her in the hallway
I stand up to change
take off my jeans and underwear
then quickly put the jeans
back on
forgetting the underwear
then put the underwear
on over my jeans
realize how foolish I look
hear the girl coming down the hall
to sneak into my room
sexual atmosphere
I am trying to take my underwear off
stumbling and hopping
around the room
then I hear the one who died
calling her again
now suspicious
that she has been trying to see me
she turns around
to return to him
my underwear still outside my jeans
I feel like a fool
for hoping
to take something away from him

The books are burning

childhood home
perhaps in Mexico
but on the side of a hill
steep precipitous walls
overhanging angles
from a great height
a team of scientists
working in the backyard
because of volcanic activity
sink holes and rising ground
the hill is becoming a volcano
rising upwards
ancient graves are being pushed out of the earth
archaeologist are working to excavate
I am walking around carefully
no wanting to get in the way
there are huge pile of books
and record albums all around
as I move  down the hill
I step from each rocking pile to another
I am looking for a viking portable books
Shakespeare, Thoreau, Plato
I see several others but not those
the volcanic activity is increasing
I am suddenly very high in the air
swaying back and forth dangerously
lava is flowing below

Infinitely deep absolutely untroubled

I am driving my step-father
through a neighborhood
old Austin maybe
trying to find an address
a house where I once lived
or meeting someone
late afternoon
but intensely overcast
he and I are talking
about how low the clouds are
a strange siren sounds
Jerry asks me what it could be for
at first I don't know
but then I realize
it is a tornado siren
just then close by
between the houses and trees
as we drive
I see the tornado
it is composed of pulsing light
diamond patterns circling around
almost like a UFO
alien and strange
moving closer to us
I take a left into a warehouse area
the tornado closer
houses cars trees dirt and debris
are flying around it
the pulsing light pattern
giving off a rhythmic hum
we park at low concrete building
some sort of utility structure
there are people crowded around the entrance
we stand with them
watching the tornado approach
it seems like it is going to move safely passed us
then turns directly towards us
now the pattern on the tornado
are the bright diamonds on a snake
the tornado moves sinuous snake-like
directly towards us
I am transfixed
hypnotized
by the movement of the diamonds
as it approaches
someone pulls me inside
there is a dark hallway
we are behind a set of double metal doors
I am holding the doors closed
using all of my strength
the tornado is just outside the door
there is tremendous noise and violence outside
the doors are warping outwards
and in the openings
I can see bones and blood
churning in a vortex
I know I won't be able to hold the doors much longer
people are screaming and trying to help
the doors are now fabric stretched
my hands hold the handles together
the four hinges staking down the sides
sheets in the wind
I can see into the center
of the vortex
a churning maw of bones and blood
faces and bodyparts
and a blackness in the very center
like a still pool
reflecting nothing
infinitely deep
absolutely untroubled

There is a gate which serves no function

in a an oasis
in an enormous desert
an abandoned house
sand filling the rooms
rope candles burning
in bowls of tallow
two women with me
one older
one younger
I awaken
from a dream
they are smiling at me
I interpret it
as an invitation
this amused the younger one
makes the older one smile
one sees me
as a decrepit old man
the other as a friend
but not who
you would suspect
the older one
is playing her game
I shrug
still groggy from sleep
go outside
the the night is blue
sky full of stars
visible galaxial spray
rich fragrance of water
I walk to the edge
of the oasis
the sand dunes
erotic and sterile
there is a gate
which serves no function
but instead of walking
around it
I open it
step through
I think I hear
footsteps behind me
I think
one of the women
I turn
there is nothing
I continue on
out into the starlit
blue of the sands

The Clearing

lucidity
and thought
weaving in and out
of the dream
telling myself a story
listening to the reflection
in the mirror
his mouth speaking
mine closed
a catastrophic event
a magnetic disturbance
from within the earth
a massive Pulse of Energy
every form of magnetically
stored memory is wiped clean
the event is known as
The Clearing
triggers domino effect
all electronic chips
malfunction
Y2K scenarios times ten
decimations
financial apocalypse
power grids shut down
the first and second
worlds collapse
into chaos and anarchy
flash 100 years future
the mistrust of
written memory
machine memory
a new religion
based upon
oral traditions
of memorization
children trained
from early age
to memorize
everyone in the society
must be able
to memorize
huge amounts
of cultural relevant
information
the storyteller
the one who centers
the society
by the performance
of drama
recitation
of poetry
the speaking
of myth

A way back home

all night
wandering through
the streets of my youth
trying to find
a way
back home

The waterfall drowns out everything

dark grimy
back room
full of people
in a big city
behind a cafe
smell of diesel and grease
burned coffee
cigarette smoke
sitting down
waiting for a couple
I knew from Black Drop
to return
from a trip
feel distant
from everyone
at the table
as if they are
speaking a foreign language
but they all know me
keep looking over
to see if I will comment
I am thinking
that the world
inside of my head
my thoughts
are more real
than this world
that appears outside
of my head
I close my eyes
and can still hear them
the conversational tumult
the sound of a waterfall
the man from the couple
is saying my name
I can tell he is
concerned about me
within I am
standing on the shore
of a river
the waterfall drowns
out everything

To maintain the happy fiction of the Greater Drama

outdoor area
park or creek bed
wooden table under oaks
drinking beer
summer nights
old abandoned
elementary schools
repurposed
no doors or windows
open air
watching others
organize a music festival
groups meeting in rooms
at tables drinking beer
a general sense of chaos
two younger women
a performer and an organizer
enthusiastic but distracted
I am concerned
the organizer
is not following through
I move around
picking up the slack
making certain
bases are covered
while she laughs
at the center
of an orbit of admirers
watching me work
out of the corner
of her eye
with a sweet smile
I detect
the atmosphere of manipulation
and the performer
in another room
has me fill out the form
for her
go get her beer
while she attends
to the affections
of others
when I point out
she is short of funds
she breaks down
crying with trembling lip
says it is all the money
she has
and I figure a way
to slide the numbers
so it is not a worry
here the dream hovers
in a kind of paused cloud
I consider
the organizer
manipulates through strength
counting on me to
follow in her wake
and pick up the pieces
and the performer
manipulates through weakness
creating false drama
acting helpless
so I will work it out
to diminish
the source of drama
both seem to see me
as it were
from out of the eye holes
of their masks
both actors playing a part
acknowledging with slight nod
and narrowing of the eyes within
that they know I know
what is going on
that we are all acting
all responding as our roles require
to maintain the happy fiction
of the Greater Drama
as always
the reflective bubble
trembles and pops
into the dim dawn
of awakening

The monster has anticipated me and is waiting

just before sleep
reading Del Toro's
cabinet of curiosities
images of monsters
passing reference
in a world similar
to one of his films
building high monsters
terrorizing the city
convoluted plot lines
moving from place to place
billboard images
projected onto the sky
tied in with songs on the radio
enormous shadows of the monsters
against a field of stars
with a group of refugees
in a house
if we stay inside
they can't see us
watching a turtle shaped monster
flying over the tops of buildings
another with a long beak
poking into the superstructure
of a skyscaper
pecking out people like ants
an image of it resting
for a moment
silent and still
blood covered beak
inside the building
the eye towards me
dull and unseeing
then screaming and roar
another nearby
everyone is inside the house
running from window to window
trying to see it
it is too large to grasp
its legs larger than the tallest building
I want to see its face
go outside
hugging tight to the side of the house
under the eaves
peering out to look up
it seems to be able to notice
each and every human face
bending down to demolish and devour
I keep making quick looks out
the monster is moving closer
thousands die with each step
I edge around the corner
look up and see its face
as large as the prow of battleship
lined with fire and teeth
opening spasmodically
prehistoric skull associations
ancient shark beasts
eyes black primal evil
rows upon rows of teeth
it sees me
moves closer
thundering the sky
shuddering the earth
tearing houses apart
with casual glance
I am pressed back up
against the wall
the burning oven
of its breath
like a hurricane around me
I know it knows where I am
this evil intellect
with its height
looks down on the house
as a whole
still cannot see me
under the eaves
I shuffle around
as it nears
it is looking for me
cat and mouse game
I move one way
then go back the other
the monster has anticipated me
and is waiting

I can feel the dead one that is there with me

in an old house
living there with someone
recent and from years ago
a girl comes over to interview us
a sudden dimming
and then darkness
as if we had just been talking
and the sun went down
discussions about death
the smell of death
a joke about the litter box
for the cat
the interviewer wants to see
this seems silly to me
we walk into the utility room
there are strange cup pipes
in our hands
metal surrounded by thick rubber
the interviewer is there for a moment
and then gone
now it is completely dark
I am leaning casually against the sink
holding my strange cup pipe
think I am talking to someone
but there is no one there
I call out to the person I live with
no answer
then I call out to the interviewer
no answer
I think maybe
they went back
into the living room
I start to leave
but become disoriented
and am still in the utility room
thinking about the smell of death
I call out to the interviewer
hallie, hallie, hallie
no answer
but someone is coming
I can hear them in the darkness
and now I am slightly lucid
in the dream
and I realize I am calling the dead
there is dim light on the horizon
an evening
I can see shadows forming
I call out again
hallie, hallie, hallie
and someone is there
with me in the darkness
more lucid now
in the dream
almost awake
I can feel the dead one
that is there with me
the one named
hallie

Mirror only as I am waking

a scene that kept repeating
even remember writing this down
at a school
trying to save something
words on the walls
floating in air
μιρρορ
thought it was
the name of a corporation
groups of people
different but the same configuration
all turning to look at me
during the drama of it all
police investigations
high-school classrooms
old workplaces
the same "actors" involved
playing different roles
again and again
waiting until a critical moment
in the unfolding of the dream
to stop and quietly look at me
the dreamer
the only other constant is the word
μιρρορ
which I figure out is a transliteration
for mirror
only as I am waking

I deliberately killed her

setting up a sound system
at an Indian reservation
desert setting
trashed out New Mexico
running wires
into the public center
covert elements
black wires
into painted-over tubes
in the outer wall
go inside to find them
like a city council chamber
a shallow amphitheater
wires are in a maintenance closet
trying to find a connection
a bomb explodes
in the chamber
many people killed
know now that I am a suspect
then it is night
I am driving a group
of young children and teenagers
to a poetry event
they all look up to me
I notice the car behind me
doesn't have its lights on
as other cars pass by
coming towards us
I can see malevolent features
illuminated in the headlights
I am watching in the rear-view
we approach a small lake
I slow to turn
and the car rams us from behind
the van goes into the water
I bump my head
it is daylight out now
the van is under water
upside down
water is filling the interior
the children are struggling
to get out
blood is in the water
two of them are floating peacefully
looking out a window
then they gently float up
one child is a savant
floating upside down
contemplating the world
I take hold of the child
and we swim to the surface
on the shoreline
the child is now dead
I know everyone will believe
I deliberately killed her

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