Dreams were of dead friends returning to life. Not triumphant. Just as they were invisible, garbage men clanging around, drunk girlfriend calls for a night cap, woke me up but I don’t answer. My conception of her is greatly undermined when I can’t see her. So I wake up thinking about oil rigs set up in the cartilage of my ear and drilling. If souls exist, they try to enter sleeping mortals ears when they are most vulnerable and some are set up to be more sensitive than this, that slight itch, can cause a convulsive reaction. I think we’re all more than one person as is. Imagine this extra luggage.
Popping my knuckles anxiously, the warped transient relief of every compulsive act. Wine and cigarettes, a burst of ritalin excitement in the afternoon, those shaking contours of bodies through the smoke or fog, our silhouettes examined as if they were creatures with lives on their own. They may as well be to residents of Plato’s cave. They know not fire or mankind. They know dancing shadows, but who knows. Maybe in their isolation they see something in our back lit cousins that is unique and separate from our 3 dimensional counterpart selves. Our shadows have a more fluid grasp of dance and rhythm than our awkward lanky bodies do up above ground. Better left hid.
Seattle ascends into the clouds. We are suddenly short of breath at this higher elevation, choked, gasping breaths like gulping fish flopping around on the beach, or taking the wrong bus, confidently kicking down the door of your classroom but it turns out to be something else and they are deep in study, all rudely distracted by an idiot intruder… ascending higher than tree line where our ambitions hide and the perfect meter may be possible to trace. indiscernible muse. I keep killing the flowers you give me prematurely.
It all seems like such nonsense. Living alone and forcing the words out. Trying to keep these self conversations lively and full of twists, turns, and excitement. Sterile like swabbing alcohol on the arm of a criminal before lethal injection. Sterile like court rooms. Those grey wigged judges with ancient gamuts cracking on mahogany long tables, all televised for your privacy. Terse, unprovocative, words, all tangled together without a thread like a highway pile up that no one notices until they are flying through their windshield or careening over the median. No one notices anything. A depressing amount of litter on the road. Orion’s belt with Jupiter adorning one of his mighty shoulders. Bad parenting. It all swirls and sinks into my consciousness though almost no truth has been conveyed. Searching, grasping words instead of concrete, visual conversation between a reader and myself to convey what my day had been or might be.
Shattered mirror schizophrenia self portraits. Terrible self doubt regarding any continuance with this current rant. All seems like garbage trapped in the membranous lungs of a dying jelly fish – muse.