Friday, November 15, 2013

Talking Dream Weavers

I wonder just to wonder and think to find out why
And then I just sit idly staring holes in the sky
 To sink into a devil’s pit would smell of rust and bone
Splash around in angel spit and piss on a pirate’s throne
I think of all the alphabets that could spell my love to you
But there isn’t one that could completely coo my woo true
Vernacular spectacular bellowing below
There is no utterance that could gut against a heart that grows to know
Tongue lash of rehash, slapstick licking your wounds
Funny ha ha or funny queer?
Funny in that general sort of way
The past is gone and left beyond
And boils up sometimes for cheer
Loaf and loathe
Coming up slow
Mental indigestion
Projection of self into the void
No one would know me the way you’ve allowed
I know I should try to get out
Be me in 3-D or 5 but the home keeps me tied, at least here I am alive
Proof of life
‘Tis all it is…
Mean something to someone
I dreamt of you again last night
Your visits are very rare
Like rubies in a hillside
I leap when I realize I am there
I was running east down my street, toward Luna…
As if to chase someone down, but there was no one
And I am on a busy street corner
Standing being a group of men socializing
Attempting to cross the road but not in a hurry
And I see you, on the outskirts of the group but listening and together…
You begin to step from the curb as a group…
And I leapt into the road to get in front
And tap you on a woolen elbow and stop in front of you
Catching my breath leaning over my belly I see the asphalt
The cold breath escaping…
I stand and look you into your eyes … like ice
The smoke signal lung filled air heaving from your lips …
Volcanic eyes recognized…
The glassy shine of wonder … like an ember in a howling wind
We made summer with our grins
And I woke.

He was no Dreamweaver, Dreamcatcher, Dreamwalker or Nightstalker

He was an insufferable insomniac who had a weird fascination for nocturnal binges as in enjoying darkened still streets, eerie dim-lit neighborhoods, scarcity of folks, moonlit spaciousness, coffee, cigarettes, telly and his pathetic attempts at conjuring a midnight story, as was the legend and the want as far as ingeniously talented wordsmiths were concerned, equaling the Blues mythic crossroads rendezvous with a certain Mr Red Horns Triangular Tails Burrows

The fact that he was up and about whilst his brethren in the hood were deep in the nether-world gave him the chuckles; a neurotic sense of victory (that vile useless manner of a banner with an Invictus sigil was, perhaps, the Granddaddy of all Non-Sequiturs  that ever did sire and a shame he'd decided to flaunt with impunity)

But eventually eyelids must draw curtains, over retina and cornea, as the body exits and the mind opens 

He was dreaming of his king
When the dream woke him up abruptly
Startled by the disturbed slumber
He had to focus and sharpen the blur within
Rub his eyes
Stretch his arms
Break that yawn
And spot trails back to reorientation
Roll back the lost snooze
Replay scattered collage
Recover lost Lego
Freezing vignettes of palpable sequence in a rolling film of random plays and thumbnail faces
Playbacks lingering on audible sounds
And one recognizable voice hits a nerve
That re-winded film framing prequels of suspicious fingers wagging at him
Echoed by herded chorus of lashing tongues
Plain pointed middle-fingers striking him out
And ensnaring a sensory climax in a momentary linear lapse of matrix clarity

He saw his king
Standing solid in an ephemeral dreamscape
His king seemed to essay a message quite firm and clear
Confidently stating to would-be naysayers on behalf of the accused
The king spoke like the king, in a genteel baritone to subdued heads taking a still bow of shamed-reverence in light of their premature ejaculations-

“He knows the ways of the land. Let him be. His state of being is a natural swerve that serves his land. Let him be. He knows how to handle and shake the accusing hand, accustomed as he is in dealing with airy conspirators and hollow revelers. He understands shifting shadows and without insult or disrespect, will handle the problem at the seam if not the helm. Now leave him be; for he seeks and finds familiarity in strange lands, as much as he crosses paths with blinkered strangers in his own land of birth.”

Thus he dreamt, remembering the gist of what his king had said, as he continued on his travels to yet stranger maps

Located neither here nor there
Absent at the center and at the edge
Missing in touristic monuments and historic walls
And quite occasionally dreaming of his king
Yet again engaging in sudden wake-up calls
And knowing what was in store
Calmly noting down exchanged greetings
The vibe and the aura providing the muted soundtrack
A floating recurrence of an emotive theme interspersed throughout the scene in the dream
And royal dialogues
Extracting relevant meanings from cryptic expressions
Remembering unspoken instructions
Catching telling talismans
Engaged in epic nocturnal regal gestures upon long engrossing serials
Often playing lucid Dreamwalkers
Or conscientious Nightstalkers
Marveling as such
When morning glories reveal captured dreams

One then becomes the awakened Dreamcatcher

Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

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