the pirate’s life for me

I’m on the back of Bg’s new yellow motorbike. We’re roaring through a red and black skied world. There’s nothing around us — no buildings, no people, no trees — only endless sky and grey road. Soon alongside of us appears some muddy stunt bike courses with lots of ramps and hard right-angle turns. They seem very dangerous and look freshly used, but we haven’t seen another living thing for hours . . . and how could have all this mud formed?
We are heading into another land, but that’s all we know — we have no plans and no provisions, save excitement for the hungry unknown world ahead. Suddenly, without warning, the road muddies and narrows and we find ourselves entering one of the stunt bike courses. She speeds up, the engine screams, and we hit the first ramp hard and fast. We soar off into the red-black sky — it swallows us, and I land in another dream. . . .

– – – – –

I’m at the scene of a horrible accident. Two cars are mangled together to the point that they hardly resemble the remnants of cars. Twisted metal, unnatural and grim. No one else is here, I’m looking around for the passengers. No one. No blood anywhere. No sign of what could have caused this awful wreck. The sky is heavy. Space, empty. Time, still.
With a terrible crackling and earthshaking rumble an endless pale tan wall quickly sprouts from the ground to my right — it stops about 5 feet above my head. I walk over to examine it and find the dismembered parts of a large black and blue spider, still twitching with clinging restless life. It’s head rolls around, and it fixes an expressionless eight-eyed stare on me, into me. Then speaks, “They always blame me, but I didn’t do it on purpose. I rarely do.”  ♨


moon beasts

The sky is falling. It’s gorgeous. Clouds are billowing upwards into shifting columns at a frantic speed. There are 2 moons. I’m walking with Ezy and he morphing into Ken. We don’t know if we are going to die or not. Large white blocks are falling as well. Alligator-like monsters are walking over the moon. They are gigantic, almost the size of the moon itself. Both moons are full, I recognize one as the earth’s moon. The other is alien to me, and has a deep cast of red to it. I’ve seen these alligator beings before. They haunt me at night. Their eyes are big, and their teeth bigger.

I am breast-feeding a baby. I’m not good at it. It hurts a bit. The baby is annoyed.  ♨

the riddle house

I’m sneaking out of an abandoned house. I am covered with red dust from scarping against the bricks. The main entryway is tight, I’ve squeezed myself through it before, but this time I realized that there is a easily opened window on the side of the house — which would be better to use to avoid visibility. The police have been violent lately with trespassers.

I get out and make my way into a red van. It’s night. The van moves back and forth within a length of only a few feet, but somehow I am at an entirely new location. No, actually it’s the same house, but there seems to be a party happening inside. I crawl back through the window and am greeted by a woman with the head of a deer. She leads me into the basement. There is a bedroom and I go in to take a nap. When I wake up a man is sleeping next to me, and there are about ten small clay figures of (mainly) fetuses lined up by the door. I go to check them out, some are still soft. My friend, Chris, mailed them to me from afar. They are exquisitely detailed. One is of a mother eating her child. Another is of four skeletons holding hands and sitting in a circle — every bone accounted for.  One, a purple faceless Indian deity sitting on a pile of splintered bones. Someone tries to handle the mother/child one and it is almost flattened, but  I gently take it away before that happens. I leave them at the door and follow the candles to a windowless room, there are people sitting in rows. I am escorted to the front by the deer-headed woman. After I take my seat I realize that I am at a wedding. It is for my friends, Eamon & Lisa. They come out wearing, what looks like, pajamas — one-piece, black and with a large neon green collar. The ceremony is quick, and a loud applause happens, but no one has moved. They take their leave with a big smile and small bow. Still, no one moves — I sit awhile motionless and then get up. The room is empty and the ceiling has lowered to the point that I almost hit my head. The door has moved to other side of the room. Hunched over, I leave. I am upstairs, starring at the main exit. It’s still bricked up tight. I see the open window, but decide to push my way through the small hole instead. My body folds, unnaturally, but without pain. And I am covered again in red dust.  ♨

fearful explosions

They planted explosives under the produce. The store is open. Now they are tracing spools of thick orange wire across the distant isles. This isn’t a covert operation, but people aren’t paying any attention. I see them however, and a deep sorrowful pain rises in my stomach — I know what they are going to do. And I know they are planning on doing it at a time that will yield the most damage. I pace the isles, keeping my eye on them. I don’t know what to do. I can’t talk. My anxiety has gotten the best of me. So I just watch in terror as they work methodically, without emotion. Why are my friends doing this? The fear rises from my stomach to my head, my eyes open.  ♨

skinless legs

I am living in an old house with my friend Michelle. The place is a disaster. The only places that have any cohesion are our individual bedrooms. The house is windowless, and creepy art is everywhere. My brother and a mutual friend are coming.  I am waiting for them, nervously for some reason. When they finally arrive I give them drinks and go upstairs in search of Michelle. She is working on a project in the corner with multiple sets of bird wings. In her room I also have a collection of human legs. They line one of the walls. They are my legs, and I can still sense and move them. I have a habit of skinning them with what resembles a large fruit peeler. I do this a lot — and though the inner sensation is not comfortable, the visual and textural experience is exquisite. Michelle thinks my habit is gross. I also carve fine lines into them. On the lower calf of the legs I have made a series of six uniform horizontal lines about one inch in depth. I am skinning the thighs now, preparing them for individual carvings.   ♨

voodoo heart

I’m outside on a grassy hill. My childhood friend (Joe) is going in and out of sleep. He is snoring loudly and occasionally speaking to me in between his snores. I went into a house to retrieve a yellow voodoo doll that I made. It’s made of wood and is triangular. Along with it I bring rusty nails — I have plans to plunge a few of them into the doll’s heart. I’m not sure exactly why or whom I’m trying to curse. My friend starts to speak in a strange language to me. I am able to understand it, but have no means of translating it into English for this writing. The information is ancient however, and I know its revelation to me will have deep consequences in my life. Immediately after one of the strings of knowledge is released, Joe breaks into a loud snore. I find it disturbing that he is operating on such a strange plane of awareness that allows such quick transitions of consciousness.

Soon after I awaken to the sound of my friend snoring. ♨

Poetry amnesty event

There was a hillside where we, the soldiers, hung out. It was joyful to feel myself in my legs walking down and then up a hill of earth. It was a tall mound of jagged dirt at the top. There was some talk and some camaraderie.  Not long and I had fallen asleep inside a warm sac. There was a sexual bit. I remember a phallus. Then a mouth sort of yelling from the outside to wake up. The war had come.

I dreamt I was floating over people being marched as soldiers.  We entered a compound and there was an amnesty zone where a sport was being held.  I thought of the Celtics(a team I guess?) I was filming with an old victorian accordion camera and there were broadsides of poetry and art.  Michel had a piece on the counter attached to Susurrus Din.  SD’s work was not  supposed to be there, but it was attached to Michel’s.  Someone sort of shuffled them on the counter. My friend S.K. from Philly was there in profile.  The war was still on outside.  An urge to leave came and then I saw a man with an M16 and a white T-shirt come in. He was getting the jump on the other side.  For all the war feelings and guns, I heard no shots.  I had a bad feeling leaving the arena where the poetry broadsides/Celtics game had gone on.  I didn’t have my gun. Where did we leave our guns?  Where was my baby?  I was think this as I was inside the arena too.

When I left the arena, I climbed up in the building to escape.  I saw dark-latino or middle-eastern men.  They didn’t seem associated with this “war.” I felt a slight tension but they just disappeared.  I needed to get out.  I had rope.  I don’t remember tying the rope to anything, but still I rappelled down the side into a foyer and ran off. I remember thinking I was not sure what color my team was; blue or tan.  It felt like a summer camp and not a war after all.  I ran off alone and didn’t rejoin the soldiers but came upon an outdoor birthday party that I was not invited to despite the realization that my sister and brother were there.  My brother gave me a plate of pomegranate seeds apologetically because there was no cake for me. I arrived just in time to see it placed before his good friend Gibran. They cut the cake and I slipped away. The women were dressy and one had a scarf around her neck. I had been wearing a full-length slip as I walked up alone.  I looked in the refrigerator and saw some old cupcakes. I ate nothing, save the hint of pomegranate seeds. They tasted like cranberries.