Sunday, April 14, 2019

the momentary release of sin

The point of idolizing guns is to not have to follow rules
we don’t believe in, because violence is on our side.
I embrace my neuro-identity
and enjoy being me.
This is how we lose our minds, our hearts,
our living histories.
Bound and swaddled, unable to
realize real lives
within constructed fantasy of costs and benefits
based on frames of property


Saturday, April 6, 2019


Trained in Self-betrayal
It's not that sex is sin, bad for moral purity,
or euphoric nature's gifts an affront on
All That Is Holy.
(Biblical disposition adapted to
Providential vision, a biased capitalism
based on self abnegation
rather than a healthful view of wealth.)
A powerful profit model built upon
slavery of responsibility to dependents --
sex for such purpose must issue descendants.
Hopelessly hooked on corporate licensed medicine,
treadmilled to produce high-cost enriching energy.
See our computer graphic charts:
"A work of Art!" too valued to despoil with your
(I'm sure)
busy little lives.  Education must
align with labor needs projections --
hiding useful information behind well
developed lies.
(So be assured, these words will fade as you awaken.)
Virulent slime fed in work stations and schools,
popular entertainment snacks,
our patented brew,
captivating memes
blow through airwaves,  as your lives hurry through.
It can't possibly be slavery if we make you believe:
You own you.
Schooling Rites
Circle 'round the weak;
teach 'em as we were taught
to keep to the place we're given
(not by a just universe, ha ha)
by the right of what we hold
by will, skill, better weapons.
Didn't sign no social contract
of mutual respect.
The rights we expect are
to live as best we can until
we don't.
Teach the little ones as we
have grown to learn --
the wages to be earned are paid
in lies.  The riddle we devise
to satisfy our rage is played upon
the prey we find
to circle 'round today.
Nature Cure
The wild has been bred out of us.
We are creatures bent to city form.
Citizens of common culture
down graded along the main stream,
abraded to fit
today's fashion scene.
Wild instructions tug deep,
feed bloodlines unappeased,
misnamed disease.
Cross Purpose
At time's crossroads, Reason drowns
in rage, pain,
irradiated rain, treasonous air.
Weary of care, of punishing,
bottomless anger, of sobbing men
robbed of their right to give birth.
Taken from Mama's warmth, from
the cave, to play brave.
And it's ladies' choice as you squirm
in fool's corner.
Such a chore -- kissing at this
and that for a chance to score
the shame, the blame from stuck-out
tongues, the bloody laughter.
"I could bite off that little thing -- make
you squat to pee."
Wired to fight, at any cost,
because, of course, the Cross proclaims
"We're right.  They are inherently wrong."
"Those below must be taught to obey
our superior tools, to be broken,
that we may ride."
Against our better fate, our race divided
along strict lines, by difference
nature devised to make us strong.
Marching On
I give my wandering children
Anger to protect you from pain
Rage to ameliorate agony
Fear of what folks won’t explain
Fraught laughter to counteract tragedy
Music to move you to heal
Theater to unite what we feel
that vague sense that nothing is real ...
Lost at an indistinct edge made of snow
Unsure where we’ve come from, with nowhere to go
Beggars and bullies and braggarts and whores
iron chains on our windows in rooms with no doors
Fire roams freely, unleashed by cruel wars,
feeds forever on days we will never see,
worlds we will never be
Raising Hell
Not true sacred magick.
Cynical sleight of hand
turns sweat and dreams,
lives of desperation
into neat bundles of greed.
But the pain burns through
not content to be twisted
into fast cars, high-stakes games,
brilliant careers in glad-handing.
It wants its payment.
False wizards of arrogant charm
play with chthonic forces
more angry and deadly than flame.
Unaware of the cursed seeds
they cultivate,
strangling life force from below.
Unsupervised children
playing with matches,
grizzled and gray as some may appear,
laugh at the bright spectacle
as homes burn.
The balance is always paid.
Magick is never free.
Will the lesson ever sink in?
Be careful what you conjure.
Support Our Troops
What if they gave a war
and nobody came?
What if our ethos gave up
on targets to blame?
March of disorders;
unstable bonds break down,
crush frightened nestlings
to dust.
We meant to serve our nation.
We meant to save liberty, defend
threatened treasure, staunch
guards against disaster.
We meant to honor sacrifice, deference of
our fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers
for the respected life:
family, God, country
and a wholesome emolument of pleasure.
How could we consent, become executors
of horror so intense
as to reverberate, capture our
remaining consciousness?
Who is advanced?
Who left in pieces that never heal?
God is on the battle field
not as commanding general nor
emboldening mascot,
as witness
and gentle minister
of tragic rites
to shattered soldiers.
plenty good money to be made
selling migrant children
(lost in "the system")
to be sex slaves
pre-speech babies worth even more
can't complain or
explain who they were
and America/Christianity/humanity
slips further into shame
and murder of what was believed
to be our soul
so many more small voices
the whine is deafening
Yo no puedo
nada, nunca
All’s too much a chore
The human world is running out of days
running out of time, and place
running down, fading
Take what you are craving
while you can
Running, enclosed in wind and ecstasy
tumbling through hills and streams
touching ebullient songs and stories I
mind made from scores of memories
Fairy Queens in fabulous fashion,
perfumed theatrical, fountain of care and flame
Here, decades before stir of storms destroyed,
bliss and pain drum rattle refrain humming in time
Would you listen?  Would you call for intermission
to tell me to go on, to give form to cast impressions,
would you hear?
Would you share precious dialog, help to make clear
notes and tones adrift in unwritten air?
darkening, forward escaping, suffocating forests can
offer no refuge, no future breath, no better fate
We cry our deep and enduring hate, love, revenge
falling backward
Why would a woman risk
death or other bodily terrors,
social exposure to all the slings and arrows
of frenzied hate,
to end her unborn’s fate?
She is protecting her child, like a good mother does,
despite her own suffering,
protecting her innocent from this horrid world,
from people like you.
O’ evil Man
It is not your gods who make you so.
They laugh at their celestial balls,
silly little mood slaves
primed to vomit sour wine,
feast after bloody binge.
Who is the moral gatekeeper,
the celebrated purveyor of righteousness?
Who the masked scoundrel,
cross-dressed wolves and lambs
in demonic jig?
A lively game to wile away some
vague eternity.
Our children obscured in armament.
So many souls to devour.
Dragon Shills
Of course there are no demons.
They are fictitious myth, fablers’ wares.
And Dragons are not fearful, not evil, never
agents of terror, conveyors of injustice.
Dragons march
are majestic, lovers of beauty,
protectors of frail humanity, deliver peace,
prosperity, gifts of progress and diligent husbandry.
Their brutal flame, but a clever demonstration, a show.
So entertaining, so brilliant a display for us below.
Yes, they soar and claim vast territory as their own;
their largesse dependent on wide airways for discharging
smoke and fire, open plains to spread immense wings.
We wouldn’t want them cramped, self-singed, inconvenienced.
Dragons, special beings, above our assigned stations, oversee,
keep our village tucked and safe, productive, running right.
Insinuate primal lizard brains persuasively, teach these
hungry, humble children to feed their might.
God of Sky and Rain
Women hold up half the sky?
In His world
women hold up the sky.
Men sit around, masturbate, watch football,
go out and rape
that small part
of the sky.
Our Gang
Depression facing outward
Taking power to give it away.
This entrained impulse
See them crackling, jangling
puppets at puppy play,
bite, bark, entangle,
grab and tussle,
growl, muscle in for the kill.
Bloodlust arousal.
Natural as puke, as death,
violation as violent orgy
violation as ecstatic
initiation to the brotherhood.
Life elevated to dreams, goals,
careful weighing of coin and hours,
dependable plans, actions that honor can favor,
love, duty, allegiance to the rules of sanity
and kind regard
have no purpose here.
Men of blood and battle fluid
need no fine speeches, no valor --
only food and receptacles
for their waste.
Standing askew as the inexorable boot commands.
Squeezing out gems, polished and pure.
Paid in bread and circuses.
Bathed in raw privilege dreams:
ravaging, raping at will
drinking to blood lust's
ecstatic thrill.
Casting out doubt, that promised reward
be assured.
Cold, this world.
Shadow sans Sun.
Listless lap at sparkling carbonation.
Sinking below matter and form
into terror tales;
battering warmth from smoldering coals.
As tomorrow continues today
our dissolving heart
bleeds pearls of wisdom.
Locked out
In the state of nature
Laws are enforced by
necessity, not choice
The Contract plainly reads
"Do what you will --
and see where that gets you."
This is the end of the old moment,
the denouement
before the Flood rushes through
Powerful men in wealth-conditioned rooms,
clean, pristine, sweet smelling air,
lunching on oysters, cognac and pears,
sign off on torture with nary a care
while young braves are herded to tombs,
crowded concrete spittoons of
freezing water silenced lungs, terror, despair
Skies part and fall
atoms no longer involved dissolve into space
Thoughts unattach from meaning,
whisper incoherently
Free floating
Sound merely audible impression
Life no longer an obsession
Love? Separation from repression?
Watery bits of stone
swim, surf broken waves, feel the moan,
the early mourning, each alone,
unconnected, eerily rejected, no goal,
nowhere to go
chaotic heat death of a world
no longer known
i dream afghanistan
little meggie pulls amygdaloid
earlobes high-shriek wails helicopter
loud -- lands inside my dream
carrier to evil arid valleys, sharia alien
landscapes of mars.
surreal desert blooms
van gogh garden of destiny,
bombarded in intoxicant, napalm perfume.
these need annihilation,
poisonous infection so much more sinister
than mere anthrax or apocalypse flu.
Children ought to bloom
smiling daisies
laughing pansies
great grasping reaching to
the Sun, the stars.
We need protection from false prophets
aiming armies
with lethal projectors, lives for lies.
My eyes turn from happy planning, puppy play
into this gloom
inside my room.
I lick my wound, obsessively.
My mouth suffers, blisters, every day.
Consuming, my soldiering memory.
Rewinding defeat,
rinse and repeat,
to be certain I never succeed
beyond this place of treason.
This wound becomes my reason,
my face.
Bitter Dregs
You don't get it.
You don't want to.
It would be too much to bear
if you let your thought go there.
Briefly unconscious, awakened to
hard concrete ground surrounded
by heels and toes, amazing
they don't crush me, but no,
like clockstep they walk around
though occasionally a(n unmeaning?)
shove -- I'm not a someone,
just a minor obstacle
unnoted in their busy day.
No worries.
Not like shoved down under
hard muscle, jutting  bone,
stinking of beer and rage;
or waking from too brief oblivion,
broken pain, bleeding
tears, torn, bruised, a
colorful toy
made for pleasure.
Then the voices, echoes.
Harpies and Sirens, Furies
and sad old women.  Fingers
shake in disapprobation.
Shrill voices call me beautiful,
in the way that ugly things are.
So bad, so pitiful, cardinal
status among the neverweres.
Struggling shadows, whispering
curses demurely lest anyone
notice and throw them further
down, below duration.
Never easy, confessing degradation.
The sin adheres.  No one wants to know.
I have a friend
who has this
She doesn't like to be touched
by men.
Even their groping eyes
sear into her skin,
she says,
make her cringe, unable
to think or move or be.
She dresses in unflattering
layers, drab shades
for added protection.
She scuttles in public, peering
ahead and back,
desperate to hide her presence
from all who might stare,
or glare,
dare to apply an
unwelcome hand.
My friend doesn't mind
her idiosyncrasy.
She wishes the world would be
more kind, more glad
to accept, embrace (without touching)
the way she has been made.
boys and their toys
It's not about religion.
It's about what it's always about
ultimately, power
boys and their toys
and their pissing contests
blowing up bombs
to etch their names in the sand
no matter who it destroys
like stomping on ants
because it feels so grand
being the stomper and not
bits of skin and juice
ready to play ever again to win
by your own rules.

standing under

soothed by rhythms of skilled movement
(like a wizard enacting well-practiced spells)
I learned to understand from direct experience
that there is a demographic of bullies
who will use any vaguely definable difference
as a meanness to torture others
expanding symbols of understanding,
effects of ever deepening layers of varied vistas
I don’t get people
though I’ve spend my life studying us in various
Throughout my times others have told me I was
(and punished me for being) weird
I do perceived that I seem to think and understand
my world differently from them.



Friday, March 29, 2019

end times (in process)

Sadness pounds through flooded fields,
rainbow streaked streets unpassable.
Stuck, covered in mud, undrinkable madness. 
No second plan possible.  Praying for numbness,
strength to move through this pain.

Unable to gain traction, to carry on.

Saturday, March 23, 2019

new LinkedIn Healing through Dance group

Healing through Dance
a web between the various healing dance studies, theories, practitioners and proponents through which to find, share and expand on healing through dance
Group rules
stay on topic
be kind

Enter Dancing

That liminal space
Between my body and vibrant air
Creates a dance.
There is fluid form
There is salvation,
Thunder from the heavens,
Tears and lightening,
A host, a feast, a conflagration.
There is laughter.
The dance takes me up
In motherly embrace,
Holds me softly,
Listens closely,
Lifts out all my sorrow,

Lets me fly.

Wednesday, March 13, 2019

dream worlds in formation

dream space

I dreamed I was awake in a place I had often dreamed of.
I said:  "This is the place of my dreams."
Then, an icy dead hand grabbed my shoulder,
revealing my fear.
'I do not fear you."  I said.  I lied.
"You are only my imagination."
She cackles, pushing her scaled hand
into my subconscious flesh.
This is not how the dream is meant to be;
not how I remember.
When I wake, as I always do,
I am disappointed.
Water Ballet
Swimming in the dream, occasional moments of lucidity
Yet, still, it is the dream, dark matter of my mind
sillily spinning.
There again those iconic structures, melting into mist,
into another round on the kaleidoscope to a calliope drone.
I swim, eerily quiet, through gem-encrusted caverns.
There are hieroglyphs, familiar yet unreadable,
etched onto the walls and crustacea.
Limpid oyster eyes, yes there's a crust of sleep dust
someday to fester into a luminescent pearl --
treasures beyond compare, beyond price,
way out beyond the market universe.
Swimming, a water ballet, so intimately aware of
each measured movement
it doesn't matter how the background keeps shifting.
Looking for dream tidings, I find images about having to pack up a lot of junk, to move elsewhere by choice or in response to disaster or inconvenience.  Stuff about crowded living situations or helter-skelter moving about to find I don’t know what.  Nothing distinct.
Then, after indeterminate time, I was surprised to find myself dreaming strong images, even if scattered in the way that dreams do.  I was waiting in a lovely waiting room with happy, even serene, people to be handed my new baby.  I believe, though I don’t think it was mentioned, a girl.  She was all little and perfect and sweet.  Everyone was excited, pleased, welcoming.  This went on for awhile as the scene morphed a bit into myself and child with a group of friends/family celebrating.  We went to a lovely European-style restaurant, open to the air, with beautiful artwork including the furnishings and tableware.  It was open, breezy, rich in colors, fabrics, yet not cluttered, enjoyably energizing and relaxed.
The waitress came over to us to take us to a table.  She was dressed in a kind of alpine costume, with long blonde curls and a drolly made-up face.  She was all smiles and warm welcome, happy to see us, happy to have us enjoying her restaurant.  I looked at her face as she touched me gently on the shoulder.  I was amazed to realize that this was the woman who had so taunted, tortured and destroyed me in real life.  Yes, it was her, but so changed.  She was happy, warm, friendly, inviting, especially once it became clear that she also recognized me.  She went about introducing me to the other staff, very proudly, as if I were a long lost friend who had happily chanced to refind her, here in this beautiful place that she was proud to show off.  I had initially been quite (though quietly) aghast to see her.  Very shortly, though, I was happy as well, for everyone was being very merry, very loving, without the slighted hint of any edge of enmity or ill-will.
This dream has been lingering:  I was wondering about in a place I had once lived and returned to. Explaining my presence to someone, I said I had lived here before, but had been living in NY and a lot of places had changed.
Then I was back in NY, apparently to take care of unfinished business. I didn’t have enough money to pay for my exorbitantly priced room. The shrewish proprietress gave the room to someone who came in while I was arguing about the price. I was out on the street.
I ran into an old acquaintance in a dark parking lot, outside a bar. Apparently we had parted bitterly. I apologized for what had happened and asked that we be able to get along, if not as friends not as enemies. He agreed to try.
I was inside the bar, in a largish ladies’ lounge, sitting on a wooden bench. Another woman, friendly, offered to share a cigarette. We smoked and talked amiably. Another woman came along and offered a glass tube, which she put to my lips and blew a white smoke into me, several times. I realized I was enjoying kaleidoscopic visions when I awoke, thinking: aw sh__! Just when it was getting good.
I was dreaming that I was walking along a verdant highway shoulder with my brother and his wife. She was asking about my health issues. I explained to her that I was coming to the realization that I was no longer “sick.” I had gone through a long healing process. Now I was not a sick person healing, but a new person I had not been before. My task now was to learn how to be that person effectively.
As I was saying this last bit, she let us know that we needed to cross the highway here, to get to a place she wanted us to enjoy in the woods on the other side. She and my brother raced across when she said: “now.” However, I got caught by traffic that came up on me too quickly. I have a recurring dream situation in which I am trying to get across a street or some such and find my feet somehow glued or tarred, unable to move. I remembered that and expected this situation to ensue. However, to my surprise, I found I was able to, lane by lane, cross the highway after waiting for the oncoming traffic in that lane to clear. I woke up before reaching the other side.
an image from a recent dream. I understand my dream offers no authority: I had apparently been the victim of a violent crime and was arguing with the police detective that it was not right that I be denied a role in finding and dealing with my attacker. I passionately argued for the rights of the victims, supposedly those we are meant to be working for in efforts at criminal justice, to be empowered by being an integral part of that process. Yet I was being treated as a bystander in my own life.
Just a dream, but then,
truth can come from dreams
hidden far beneath common
compasses and brandings
useful for daily social norms
truths enrobed in symbolic forms
reveal in dreams
dream imagery can be so evocative
without making sense
without kowtowing to the senses
to scientifically observable fact
running without legs or pavement
smiles lingering without cats or mirth
dense, immediate quarrels
never begun nor ended
I roll over crimson seas in a rollicking
ferryboat, bar tab with no way to pay
dreaming, outside responsibility
catching glinting glimpses
open to interpretation
kind of vague as to where it started
something about visiting friends at this old, complicated house
then there was a passage of time, and I'm back, out back, by the backdoor, where a woman I don't know is letting out a dog.  At first I was fearful, but the dog proved friendly, and we romped a bit.  Somehow I was inside the house with the woman, who I assumed was visiting my friend, though my friend did not appear.  There did appear a man, middle-aged arty bohemian, dark facial hair, "hippie" type clothing, flowing and colorful.  I assumed he was also visiting my still absent friend.  There was red wine in clear crystal wine glass.  The man was building some kind of shelf or temporary structure, part of an art project.  There was evidence of paints, canvases, art supplies.  The corner with his stuff was messy and exuberant, like he was.  The woman was sitting in a clear, structured part of the room, glass and metal sharp-angled "modern" furniture.  The wine glass was atop the modern table.  There was a large window, taking up the wall space to my left.  Outside I could see that there was major flooding.  It would be impossible to walk home.  People were swimming to get anywhere.  I asked the woman if I could stay the night because of the flood.  The man was making a lot of noise with his project.  I walked over to watch him.  He started telling a long, apparently meaningful story, but I could only make out occasional words.  I nodded and smiled when he seemed to expect response.
I told the woman that I was an old friend of the people who had lived in this house.  I mentioned two separate old friends, people who I have always greatly admired for their courage, independence, difficult struggles through which they achieved self-expression.  She did not seem to know them, though allowed that she was not certain that my older friend was not somewhere deep in the recesses of the house.  I remembered that the younger friend had moved from this house a few years back; that I had been away since then and had just recently returned.  I did not know if these people in the house were visitors or new residents.
The woman told me that I could not stay.  I said I understood, that I would leave as soon as I finished the wine in my glass, which was prominently placed on the table.  Outside it was becoming dusk.  The woman said I must leave immediately before it got too dark to find my way.  I quickly swallowed the last gulp of wine and left.
Once outside, it was almost dark.  It had become quite cold, and the flood water had frozen.  Now the ground was covered in steep ice and snow.  It was difficult to walk though the slippery jagged icy covering on the streets and sidewalks.  I was not sure where I was, though I thought that I could keep going and eventually find my way home.  It seemed to be getting darker and colder.  There was hardly anyone else on the streets; no one nearby.  It was an upper middle-class residential neighborhood with big, sometimes strikingly good looking homes.  Snow covered the yards and loomed above me.  Suddenly I could see the beginning of an avalanche.  The snow was still far above me, but I could see that soon it would overcome me.  I did not want to suffocate in the snow.  I got moving, as quickly as I could over the icy pavement, as the snow kept moving toward me.
I found myself at the edge of a large bowl-shaped ground, a vast courtyard.  It was quite wintry through the countryside, but the ground was fairly bare.  The courtyard was semi-circled by a huge, impressive building.  Something like a castle, but also like I imagine a Soviet governmental building, strong red bricks and ornate architectural flourishes.  There were two uniformed guards, something like old Bolshevik army uniforms, red with black and gold trimming.  They were quite far from me, but I had a flash thought that they might hurt me.  The thought passed, and I continued moving down a vast wall of snow, like a mountain trail.  I could see the open-ended majesty of the courtyard in the twinkling night and it thrilled me.
I awoke with that image still before my inner eye.
Jump!  Jittery.  Nauseous claustrophobia . . .
l e t t i n g  g o  s  l  o  o  o  w
Whoosh in a leap faster than my breath can catch me
moving dizzily, half-blinded, out of focus
moving along a tree-shadowed path.
Enchanted forest?
smoke curling upward
gingerbread cottage in the woods
may I rest here, recoup my losses?
Savory soup simmers over the hearth fire.
Shadows fall over the corners
yet the center of the room
is surprisingly clean and polished.
I sit in mantra embraced
by soft silky wings.
Outside winter is falling.
When I awaken from my trance
planting season will begin.
The wild rains of spring
have caught me napping.
They catch me up in torrents
swinging me along
a cradle in the sea.
I am dreaming mazes
wondrous pageantry
woven into ivy walls.
The sea surrounds me.
I acquiesce to secret ceremony
believing the earth to be my home.
The Ontology of Dreams
Centering out from the widening spiral,
phantom bits of fear and memory
Feeling my way into new rooms, new adventures, ways of being
It was important to lock the door to the noisy hallway,
feeling my way.
Surreal images, photographs in time, scenarios played out of sequence
A mother image leaves for a trip of no return
Another image, unknotting blue ribbon in strong good humor,
willing to perform
outward from my center.
I tell you this, tell you my changing seas and travails
it is important, opening the door, welcoming opportunities.
Tell me, tell me, tell the tale of my dream.
Spiraling out like galaxies,
photographs drifting into uneasy orbit.
Antennae licking the flashpoint, releasing images, centering
eyes opening into focus.
Creature, being, created from singular experience cocooned in dreaming.
Meditating, sitting, silent, still, watching metaphoric art film of revealed
truth waft like oracular smoke over beauty of this deep-blue pond contained
in floating ice offset by fog-faded mountain awareness.
Stories unencumbered by beginnings, by logical progression, by
boundaries, yet pure and strong as sacred text.
That meat-suit we use for interface, to find and absorb sustenance,
input that makes us dependent on a scientifically defined world,
magically transcended, hours transformed outside of measurement,
of time.
Even those horrific, catastrophic images that angrily cast you back
into a waking sweat and terror, even they are breakthrough respite,
catharsis to contain, secure, untenable memories, fears.
Immerse with your story’s most salient themes.
Agitated, observing, moving fluidly in the multi-tiered library.
So much to take in, be drawn into, imaginary conversations with
bright-labeled books.  The library like a horror movie medieval tower,
fearsome.  Lightning storm, steep stone climb from a college holiday
fair far below.
Immersed in sharp colors, sensual, deeply felt geometries.  Circus
fools, acrobat costumes, hidden rivers along highways thicketed in
mystically perfumed foliage.  Scenes never seen in waking life, yet
perennially home, in dreamtime,
Puissant, what drugs want to promise.  Free theater customed
to a singular crowd.  Instant, hologrammatic slice of eternity.
Perhaps a gift, brief respite from agonized responsibilities.
Respite from cold, pain, everyday injuries of innumerable mites
infected with pestilence, endless war.
In the innocence of dreamtime, what have you seen?
Those dreams, those dreams, to live only there
where it all makes nonsense that feels so inevitable.
Dream places connected in hyper-clear intensity
-- hard hills of snow become Summer fountain festivals
on opium fields, sickly sweet and sticky bun bewitching,
that cloying ecstasy you never want to leave.
Those snow-robed mountains, forests, royal Guard,
calling so softly, so forcefully, Sirening in, holding
for exhibition.
Who we are in dreams, unobserved for critique,
pictures imbued with emotional sensation speaking
directly to our most private desires.
To live in dreamtime, free of censoring reality,
what would that mean?
That dream again
running, running
but your feet are stuck, enmeshed in pavement
though all of your intent runs in terror.
Demon warriors form themselves in the grey cloud that surrounds you, become denser, full 3-D attack.
You find yourself at war with your pillow, trapped in twisted sheets.
Another damned day to get through looms beyond the dream-storm tossed bed.
And you?  Tell me your dreams.
Here, in this still place,
prior to awakening,
which dream takes hold?
Dream whatever dream you see.
Reveal your potent imagery.
Release your awesome wings
— it’s okay; it’s just a dream …