IN TIME'S EYE
Dream Labyrinth
I have returned from a vista of rolling dunes. The Wizard of Oz just chased a hookah smoking caterpillar off his mushroom, and Alice out there hoisting a hand lettered sign retrieved from yesterday's rally. Of course it will be said I just made this up.
True, I do have such dreams, but then who could be held responsible? Would it be plagiarism? By the principal of fair use, my nightmares are not liable. Scot free, in the realm of night shades.
Day dreams are another matter. Sure they can be deliberate and profitable, enviable as such. Or drugs will induce weird visions that others see, if similarly influenced.
Or you might conjure straight ahead fiction.
This may constitute a line of reasoning.
Reader beware! The line between dreams and reality is tenuous enough already. There are certified professionals who will help you thread the needle, or toe the line as they see it. Dispute them at your peril.
Let me bypass some administrative expenses. This screed is paced to match attention spans inculcated by the internet.
A story is not a surrogate for experience. Rather it is a pastime, a daydream. Experience is the best teacher, and as for ultimate reality, experience is the only teacher.
On the Nearness of Napping
strange indeed that moss shares no echoes
its softness speaking only in dreams
or in the slow capillary drip clinging after rain
it is not at all like that woman
washing her hair in a stream
who of course might have been
by her cave
its hollowness bounding down into ripples
coiling into shadows
stunned by the brilliance of geraniums
which
having shown their colors at the entrance
in all honesty
had to weep
while tramplers of moss, laughing
squashed rivulets
between their feet
Consuminoid
We've pretty much all been had. This remark floating by wormed its way in: “Are we having fun yet?” I wondered how anyone could be so dumb. On a trip to Kyo Po Market, shopping for green tea, a hallmark of wisdom, or ginseng in wild packages emblazoned with red roots.
Once, while leaving the library, my gaze settled briefly on a famous person who had turned to stone, and it was plain as day, easy to understand. Small creatures scurry through the park. I recalled a colony of ants in Japan, as though just a moment ago. They were building a small volcanic mound up through cracks in the asphalt, halfway between the chow hall and the microwave shack. And I'm supposed to be interested in buying a cell phone?
I am not Pavlov's dog. Let them yap. This is not the kind of rap all too commonly heard while being a citizen of Pavlovia. Then --
sitting in the electric chair without actually realizing it
almost accidentally discovering how to unlatch the cell door
the bars folding up
freedom most inconceivable
better not blink
Well now, there's nothing to shout. It doesn't sting, and nothing much to sing. The cell never was. The blueprints on toilet paper were believed, temporarily, then dwindled down the drain. Dissolved.
That statue by the Federal building? Will it blink?
This might get a better hearing if there was --
a detour around the ant mound, let's see
an argument between the cooks, a grease spill
and the careless one?
oh yeah
sleeping with his girlfriend, in town
on the weekends
See? Once out of the cage, everything becomes clear.
Fugue
at night
a bucket of mop water on the porch is forgotten
to the delight of darkness
as the fireflies say
keep on looking, keep on
and you'll miss us
then a slight jar in the fundament
still quite unobservable in the firmament
while taking a group photo
and the family dog snags a flea
acts naturally
rocks the camera tripod
an unlikely event
the ones forgotten on the porch
though they flittered politely, pretending
they were hardly there
