Sunday, June 21, 2015

Dream 23: Freedom

I'd like to describe my escape from a mental institution.

At some time, I had been a free man in the city. I was walking around the perimeter of a circular corporate office---it's courtyard was constructed of lain brick surrounded by a low brick wall---when I spontaneously decided to venture into the building and explore its hallways. I wanted nothing more than to trace a circuit along the entirety of each office floor, to peer around the endlessly bending corners and pass the time this afternoon.

Without much reflection or hesitation I entered one set of double-doors on some indeterminate floor and began to examine the room around me. Almost instantly, as soon as I visually registered the throngs of people milling about the room dressed uniformly in cream colored jumpsuits, I became aware that someone had shut and locked the doors behind me and that I was now captive, unjustly imprisoned in what turned out to be a mental institution.

As I turned around to leave, assuming my entrapment to be an accident, I could see that hefty guards outfitted in navy uniforms had already taken their posts in front of and alongside the only set of doors into and out of this place, and that release would not be offered to me. The guards entered and exited freely, dutifully flashing their credentials to one another as they slid through the doors, which opened ajar just enough to let one body pass. I stood and watched them enter and exit, changing shifts like clockwork, and they never tired of their posts.

Years passed...maybe three or four. I paced in circles around the large common room of the mental institution, among the other crazies, all during that time.

Eventually, I obtained information that a close friend and confidant, a tall, athletically built bald man, would attempt a break from the ward. I witnessed only the aftermath of the unsuccessful escape, however, my friend being strong-armed and dragged by four guards away from the open doors of the ward's lobby, into a remote padded cell at the end of a short hallway. He had at least made it that far.

Soon my friend would attempt again to escape the mental hospital, this time inviting me to join him. He managed to stir up some commotion among the patients and prisoners, apparently leading a chase towards the elevators which accessed the rooftop. The guards left their posts in pursuit, and I alone ventured through the double-doors of my prison and slipped out, darting through the halls to another elevator, which I rode down to the ground floor. It seemed no one was pursuing me.

The main lobby of the building, the courtyard, the bricks, all looked as they had when I first encountered them. And I made haste to locate my friend, my savior, whom I had feared had been caught. I retraced my original circuitous path along the perimeter of the ground floor, around the ever-curving hallways, which were desolate. I was searching for something new, some tangible change. Exiting, I finally discovered my friend, sitting calmly on a bench in the courtyard, wearing a purple hoodie and dark sunglasses, and a stoic expression on his face. He was in disguise. I greeted him with cautious formality, just two men casually rendezvousing among the unseen predators, and we left the courtyard, and finally the premises.

We came to the street, where hispanic merchants were selling trinkets and small dolls from wooden wagon carts. I peered down at one basket of dolls, miniature and dressed in woven ponchos of many colors, all singing in unison the song "He Venido," and at that moment I understood that I was once again free. I picked up a black-and-white checkered gymnast streamer and began to spin in circles in the middle of the crosswalk, tracing a slanted ellipse dreamily around my body, gyroscopic, and with outspread arms I began to cry, overjoyed.

Friday, May 29, 2015


Bleak in the underground

Breathing uncirculated air,
 the musty aspiration of the 
 garbage-soaked rail ties,
 an entombing experience

The tenacious wait,
 sinking into the suck of
 the moldy platform, dirty
 to its foundation, and falling
 asleep standing up when it
 gets too heavy 

Ahhhhhhh here comes my train

Reading over someone's shoulder,
 spying my little eye,
 invading, I read the 


In this city, you never know.
 The spirit of SATAN may be upon us,
 down here with with the rats,
 but as long as he doesn't bother me, and I get
 to where I'm going, he can ride right along.

And I'll pretend not to notice anyone,
 and they'll pretend not to notice me, 
 and everyone is safe

Thursday, November 21, 2013

whach this

lip gloss on the bathroom mirror came the previous year, or the time that he realized he no longer had a uniform because his mother liked the colors and stitched it onto the couch.
motional hang-ups at a bohemian salon in New York City. "Shortbus" expands to 10 more cities this weekend.
But Musladin insisted he fired in self-defense Mrs Faraway was a terribly unhappy
on May 13, 1994. Musladin arrived at AOF asking the court to reconsider the case, Los Angeles theaters.
An argument broke out and from there the accounts the magic
garden motional hang-ups at a bohemian salon in New York City. "Shortbus" expands to 10 more cities this weekend. first weekend. The movie had
had have made that same phone call now. well who could tell what would happen. 

Other Dream on Recorder

The forest was definitely enchanted. Little fluorescent mushrooms spread across the mossy earth. I did not hear the typical din of crickets and frogs, but just naturally assumed they were there.
Then the manta ray shot - nay, burst - out of his hole and advanced. I immediately noticed that he was wielding a mini power sander. This fish was out for blood. 
I was instructed to drive myself back to the party, avoiding the main roads. HE thought the cigarette carton was a juicebox, and his lips were searching for the straw for quite a while. In green haven, I was on the boxing team where I worked out and without ever considering how his actions affected others the man became invincible. He knew he had to write something, in case he ever came back ten years later and wanted to demonstrate that it just didn’t matter what the common man detested... definitely enchanted.
Little fluorescent din of crickets and frogs, but I just naturally assumed the manta ray shot - nay, burst - out of his hole... drive myself back to the party, IT wouldn’t have made a difference if shots were fired, his friend was running drunk into the ocean and surely would have drowned himself had he not been brought detained in the jungle gym on the sinking beach. He thought the cigarette carton was avoiding the main roads.  the boxing team where I worked out without ever considering how the man became invincible. He knew he had to write something, wielding a mini power sander. his lips were out for blood.

Monday, October 28, 2013


And I fell into
deep sleep, where the night wandered
cool into the beige velvet sunrise,
thick with oatmeal and cinnamon

Thursday, October 3, 2013

Poem: The Prolonged Melancholy of My Mother

Mother, I sit next to an ugly man returning
guilt weary on the train from our slowly-
sinking dog-house. In the half-humbled
din of the passengers I hear the
invocations of twenty-seven years, tears,
spending yourself, looking into the future
for iron deeds and not necessarily gold,
tending the repeat wounds you believe were
salted. I would like you to see me as a son,
as I see you my child, delicate, red,
lonely in your own mind. This train speeds to
your desire, to stay hostile affection, and now
to my cyclic...sigh. Please do not cry on your
birthday, nor two nights before, because I
called you insane. Wait, as you say, this will pass.

You say that you pray, that I pray, that
I pray for you. Would you dance with me
in this car, tearing your wedding gown,
if I played you a song? Choose to hear me,
today wade cold above your theories, and
reply, vacant, 'alright.' The woman whose
calloused feet were washed by priests; who
swelled alive with slender limbs balanced,
ascending divine among V, wing├ęd V, to follow
the geese; who eventually wore a crown to issue
orders to an empty room, receive my signal:
The nightmares which you suffer from
grow in the words
nobody says nobody says,
and they're random like the lottery.
A general and a martyr, generous mother,
faultless and fierce, you've been a holy
angel on the highwire, but scared to death.
Please remember the ground is stable, your
children able, and that the lights are on, once
bruised but on. Know that this animal cage
around you will soften and expand, and
only for the brief remainder of the night must
you climb through the fog overhead
until now, when you wake again.

Rise from your bed, I command you, rise! From
now until we return to dust, golden ash, I lead your
grace, your soul, my mother, through the thousand
faces of paradise, an eternal vacation from your poverty
in sorrows. Today, I take you to Paris, morning
under the tower, where I tie up your slippers to watch
you bend over and around the sun from my egg in
the grass. At dawn we cruise North, Nova Scotia bound,
whalewatching, continental breakfast on the upper deck
where you are the most beautiful woman the captain says
he's ever seen. Beholden we early feed dolphins from
your brother's boat in the Everglades, and sunblocking
your shoulders I announce that I'm moving back home.
The air is hot here in Africa, where your body has ceased
to trouble you, and the bachelors persist, and they
are all reverent, doting, rich; Nevermind and
walk, I will let no one dishonor you today.
We bristle as the shops open in London...

Monday, September 9, 2013

Dream 22: Branded

I was browsing the Ralph Lauren store, searching for some dress shirts and sweaters to wear to my new job in the upcoming Fall and Winter months. I entered the "New Arrivals" section of the Men's department, and featured front and center on the shirt rack---to be the first item beheld by any visitor---was this pink atrocity that I felt compelled to investigate further, up close, if only to convince myself that it actually was for sale.

I held in my hands what I reasoned was a bathing suit: first of all, this article of clothing was so flashy, so colorful, that its dimensions and overall shape were obscured, confused; if it even was a bathing suit, I was not sure which part of the trunk I was holding...the leg, or the waist? Secondly, it was too ugly to have been any other type of clothing one wears out in public. I thought, only bathing suits get away with patterns this busy and obnoxious.

I soon found that the article could be unfolded, and doing so I discovered that in my hands was a standard pink long-sleeve button down-men's shirt, which had been covered all over by the embroidery of a handful of circular consumer logos that typically signify either social status or capitalism. Here is a fairly-true-to-memory mockup of the shirt that I was now appreciating, with wonder, in full view:

The first thought that came to mind was, "This is fucking atrocious...who would buy this? Who would sell this? Oh, of course, Ralph Lauren would." Then, almost instantly after, I started to admire and desire the shirt: "Actually, I could see myself wearing this...yeah, it's cool! I like it! I want it! I must have it."