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