*Our Dreams.

I had a dream that, a dream that you couldn't half-aware make right.
She's just always there.
She's there in the moorish boathouse, in my dream--and up against the wood and bubbled-glass paned door I rubbed the place I'm sure you had. Any of the behind-places that are soft. Any of the places you hold when we sleep. And this dream you see, it gets so tangled, it gets so mangled. And it tries and tries, and she tries and tries, to rip open my heart again to where it was when I loved a building. Merely a building.
And I swirl downward w/ colors on my own hands.
And I swirl downward, farther into the elevator of memories that are beginning to delicately, to distantly, to grey-mist roll and suffocate me...and fade from me...

And then you fall in your own sleep and I wake.
And it's just a dream.
\\\\\It's just one of the little fragments that form together to make what I call sleep.
And I think I don't know how to live,
when there's so much now to lose.
\\ Was any of it really lived?...the gulp,gulp, way that I once drank up one single lamplight.
Oh, this waking, waLking,
talking, holding, - stand still and see the city lights - moving, moving, just keep moving Life.


And it's just merely the smallest little pebble in the beginning.
It's just merely the very first irreversible steps taken to reach......what?
The fame(?),
the fame
of the blame
of making something that people breathe in, drink in, gulp down....in the same way in which you wanted it to actually all be.
And what if, what if - it really all just comes together, and they all, we all just get the things we dreamed of in INCENSE SUMMER NIGHTS, and drops of SNOW ON THE BRICK steps, and BUCKETS OF RAIN ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR and the street cement below my head.....and we all laugh together somewhere come together, at a table all of us sit lit by the warmest golden candlelight, and somewhere in the place there are amber reds and cool blues, and the porcelain white plates are filled high with half-eaten meals, and the glasses keep emptying, and there are a million back-stories to each, to any two of the group you could pick....[Two of them are toasting drinks mixed of stolen slurps from everyone else's glasses-reaching high into the rafters of the place for the next epic night to really get going..and next to them one of them is sitting too much higher than the rest with her hair and raised-to-lips fingernails in a mock-coyish attempt...beside her a friend leans one shoulder against her-as she wraps arm and leg around her curly-haired man-so sweetly wrapped around one another......and then down the line......a boy and a girl are girlishly whispering things-each smoking away from the other-fully immersed in noiseless talk, and then one of them is gallantly putting on hilarious stand-up bits-hopping up, and down, and up, from his seat with each hair flick.......and beside him is the only truly modest one-beautifully speaking with anyone near...and at the end--one of them is chuckling in the most Herculean of ways, and daring the symposium to go on......and then around......and one of them still keeps tapping his big sneakers against the floor-resting a cigarette between each side of himself......one of them is so painfully handsome that he every once in awhile checks himself, looks down, as if forgotten-and no one notices-then grins so, so very wide at each raised slurp toast......and one of them is building great meals with her hands-to the groans of the always-hungry ones--in a lavish English Tea fable........then, well then one of them smells of lake wind as he twiddles his knuckles-and is watching all of them in such a way that he'd never believe they'd let him be just who he is], and they are all laughing and smiling to each other, and they are all so brilliant....and they are all so good and so great and so sad and so beautiful, and they all got what they wanted most, with such different families now, in such various places that they'll all go back to afterwards....and I see them as I'm walking in the heavy glass door from the street and my flight, shaking off the snow from a heavy black coat....and I see all of them together, lost together again. And the last one looks up and smiles his snail grin at me. And I sigh, and smile finally again-in that way you only can then.
And I walk over and sit down again.


And I wake up.





Daily headphones: Ray LaMontagne's "Hold you in my Arms", GooGoo Dolls "Black Balloon" and Springstein's "I'm on Fire"

Sliver of the moon

Hear, hear my friends! Here, here (I am). Gather round, gather round the oriental rug that covers up an altar that I once made- I think there might be a burn mark here or there....in the places between my thoughts, between my legs,
 between the pages of any summer novel
left behind in the beach sand.

The particles of cupcake sprinkles that sink and chafe

                      and sprinkle every Saturday of summer everafter

                                                           with the feeling of forgetting something.

Because we must forget,
{merely pretend to neglect} our times we each have,

our weeks before we say

"I love you". Cause that's the only time it ever means, everything that shudders in heat, as you drip, and you choke so hard against it that it burns somewhere farther deep that the deepest level of the city street.

That sliver of a MOON right there, that sliced opening, gleaming into the sinews that pumped a pumping heart- of that old factory of brick-stacked nights....one on top each other, ON top each other....one on top of each other we rolled...
But I think I don't remember them. I think they spiral in a hundred lopsided figure-eights made by a sparkler in the sweaty, sticky night of the East coast summer so many miles away. When all of us forget each others faces, because all of our eyes are burning with the dripping salty water.



And down my school-girl little mind does skip-
from Parisian streetlamp to streetlamp;
                      zigzagging in a dizzying, wonderful suffocation...like the thousandth lick on a swirly lollipop by a pigtail girl in the backseat of the family van.
...Then I stretch my arms up high, around, and grasp an entire Columbus-flat land that I punched-in-the-side bought one night.
[[10 fingertips hot against the window, sitting Native and naked underneath a sinful white sheet, and it was mine. And I thought it'd never be, like the he's never were. ]]

• But now it is. How it is?
• When it is, when did this (grin) all become?

....when did we find ourselves, each of ourselves, in the cities we walked in memories-pride-,... no dear blurred recollection-in haunted Addiction of.
We were addicts.

(We are addicts?)

Of the reckless to the responsible scale of law which....law, LOUDly, plank-hammer-nail themselves apart.
....but when did the porcelain makeup actually cover up scars in my womb, [/////] and my, my, my, ...my cancerous marks that may just smear balled-up cotton of my warmest sleep...

Warmest sleep in the city of my, the city of my, unwritten descriptions.

The middle ground west of my next adventureland. My darling dear, and my lack of words. Here's to you! - the views I see from all around.

Running from a burning firework, a burning magic, in a wide open sweet-smelling green space....only to watch it reveal and arc overhead....
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Daily headphones: JET "She's a Genius", Spoon "Underdog", CCR "Bad Moon Rising"