Primarily a writing exercise, this dream journal-inspired blog is a quiet introspective sojourn into the process that we traverse in going from private dream to public art. I see our dreaming as an internalized mythmaking. As I philosophize and expressively exhibit dreams, both private and public, I encourage and delight in creative language as a way to practice experiential metaphors through a “public dreaming." Writing Theory: Creative Dream Fiction

Tuesday, 28 February 2012

As a Child of Light, Embraced by Thoth in Dreamland

Ramses III. in front of god Thoth in tomb of Khaemwaset, 12th Century BC. by Ancient Egyptian Painter

"Thoth, the Atlantean, at the 26,000 year ago beginning of the Cosmic Cycle now ending, aided in the building of the Great Pyramid and secreted within it records and instruments of the Motherland Mu and Atlantis explaining how the 'Children of Light' dwelt amongst the Ancients and are not as sons of men, except when they are in physical bodies. Thoth incarnated again in the Third Dynasty of Imhotep as architect under King Zoser, was Socrates and Simon Peter among seven incarnations. He knew that all men were essentially Spiritual Beings, for he said, 'Man is a 'star' bound to a body! Man is space born, a Child of the Stars(a Starchild!). Man is a flame bound to a mountain!'"


For More Mysteries: Where the Lines that Divide Science and Myth Intersect 

"Dreamland" refers to the areas in and around Nevada and New Mexico where extraterrestrial mysteries intersect with government security, arcane science and high technology. This is the setting of my dream.

After this series of dreams passed through my consciousness, upon waking, I had intended to discard the activity of recording this night of dream substance, as the sketches of dream memory seemed to be far-fetched, or too far removed from my daily, waking reality. Then, upon waking, I was forwarded the above message from an old friend. I thought this was a sign that I should indeed record this dream.

I seemed to be returning from the West Coast, driving across the United States, when I passed through the Southwest. I feel as though I’ve ended a part of my life where I was deeply embroiled in study. As I traverse beyond the coastal horizon into the desert landscape, I am somehow drawn into one final “course” if you will. I stop in an area of absolute desolation somewhere deep in the deserts of the American Southwest. The only nearby city is way far off beyond the horizon. We are in pure desert. I see a familiar face in a crowd of indiscernible human shapes and activity. Suddenly, though curiously expected, there is a presence above, a directing mysterious light, leading us to raise our arms in recognition. I feel we are being taught something, as my entire body begins radiating with harmless visible electricity. There is a pulse coursing through my limbs with a vibrant white glow.

Suddenly, I find myself, in the state of a child. I perceive myself as a small, minute entity, like a small child version of myself, however, somehow smaller, as my surroundings are proportionately more massive than I’ve ever experienced. I feel as if dropped into the middle of the desert, with only a couple companions, equally disoriented. We begin stumbling through the desert brush in an unknown direction, thoughtless and with a daze of incredulity and stubborn introspection strong enough to leave us careless and at once convinced as to the security of an optimistic fate. As we continue our walk, we soon happen upon an open cliff, leading into a canyon of vegetation and water. This source of life is our destination, we can feel it. As two children, however, we fall headlong down the cliff, without heed to caution or ability to properly maneuver the descent, and find ourselves plunging into the cool stream below. This is refreshing, however disconcerting, as we feel we have lost things of importance. There are beings upon a hillock above us, so we slowly collect ourselves and find our way to the top. We are welcomed by a towering figure, an alien body, whose shape and features remind us of an insect, although this being commands great respect. There is an exasperatingly strong resemblance to the living Thoth, Egyptian God of Knowledge and Writing! We are comforted in the presence of Thoth, and he sees to it that we are taken care of, while being independent as ever to splash about for our things in the water and climb the forested canyon hills.

Now that I reflect, I believe more and more this was the figure of Thoth as we know from Egyptian mythology in the flesh. In the dream, Thoth was of certain humility and held an unassuming air, embracing me and simply allowing my inner Child to explore (with personal neuroses intact) under the beautifully humane security of his nearby presence. 


Watch about another incarnation of THOTH in New York City!

"there's an old saying,

that goes something like;

‘a person that knows their place is a demi-god,

and the place of a person,

is a god,

and the One who has no personality

and is everywhere,

is the God’

a really old saying,

no one knows where from"

- excerpt from "An Old Saying"

Sunday, 26 February 2012

King Solomon and the Drug of the Dreamer

“King Solomon in the Book of Kings goes to a high place and has a dream there where God gives him wisdom and advice and information and riches, now although we don’t have any evidence of this in the bible, we think it was probably very difficult for non-professionals to enter this trance-dreaming state. So, the speculation is that the priests who attended those dream sanctuaries, probably passed out little drinks that would help ease you into a nice sleep that was filled with visions.”

- from History Channel Documentary, "Ancient Drugs" 


Novitiate Dreamer

What is the overlapping effect of passionate, searching intent to experience and remember one’s dreams with regularity? What happens when one suddenly replaces the time spent specifically to practice dreaming, as a “writing” process of mental recording, with waking life experience? How does one’s life experience change based on that spiritual momentum and waking transition?

Seasoned Dreamer

You begin to see the Dreamers among the crowd, those who are a bit more aware about the fickle nature of reality, and are fearless to dream in their daily lives, to create worlds out of the creative mediums emanating from their own minds like veins of a pulsing heart, emboldened with the glory of Love’s unmistakable vibration, and they are so clearly seen among crowds of people isolated from the dream connecting us all, because the rest are too afraid to realize that their clothes, hair, attainments, and on are the mere substance of their dreaming and nothing more, and nothing less. 


Charged into the luring night
Carved into the alluring heights
Nuanced into tribal delights

Singing with the ancients in tones of space 

Delayed, silent prophecies spell dismay 
and the pandemic smites the land

Wired, fortuitous 
growling, harbored animals’ grow to fame

Sparkling wizard beards of vision 
drunken, smoldering, breathless 

- excerpt from "An Artist's Line"

Friday, 24 February 2012

Missing and Murdered Aboriginal Women over Black Coffee

Color Drawing by Anonymous (collected as Tsimshian Art)

Interview with Ojibwe Poet David Groulx by Black Coffee Poet

“I remember as a kid, dreaming about a poem. There was a huge hand coming out of the clouds writing on a scroll, a poem about an aboriginal man, man it was the most beautiful poem I’ve ever read, I was reading it as this hand from the clouds was writing it and a voice from behind me told me to get up and write it down, I said I would do it later as I wanted to finish reading it and I couldn’t remember a word of it by morning, maybe I’ve been looking in my mind for that poem ever since.”


I have a deep yearning to visit the office of a highway connected to the missing and murdered Aboriginal women in Canada. I am outraged, yet powerless without any direct contact with the victims or their communities. I am not local, yet I find an office which oversees one of the most afflicted highways. I walk in, and am immediately distracted by an environment of mundane administrative and bureaucratic office work. I wait among a few chairs, deeply incensed by the seeming apathy. There is no information or any immediate signs which would point to the atrocities being committed under their watch. I am called up. The two office workers appear as under a guise of extreme passivity and banal normalcy. My presence is reacted to with equal monotony. They review maps of the highway layout with me, and yet their striking imbecility leads me breathless with an introverted silence. I leave disappointed with myself.  

For creative sources on social justice and arts activism dedicated to the missing and murdered Aboriginal women of Canada, start with More of Black Coffee Poet 


"to the foreign drum of an impenetrable toxicity
left unconsumed and needed by feet
lit under concrete sustained magic
of the urban disillusioned,

northern mind
bringing the steady rings of a consciousness
prepared as the instrument of a government culture
performing the theatrical stronghold of minority no-release
fish-burdened town of extracted marrow
through procedural temperaments
that go unled and steam up
with chaotic strictures
that demean the meaning
of man and woman
or masculine-
feminine time"

- excerpt from "Northern mind"

Wednesday, 22 February 2012

Overcoming Fear through a Koan of Dream

Stairwell Lighting at Night by Adolf von Menzel
Buddhist Hermit

"if you see through this world and let go of it...this is wisdom
if you see through this world and but don't let it go...that's just "talking Zen"

here, for you:

[the hermit hands a handwritten koan to the filmmaker]

'ten thousand things
all in this breath
grasping hold of emptiness
there's really nothing to say'

'ten thousand things, all in this breath...' why are people so busy?
just for one breath
they say, 'busy busy, mine mine...
busy a whole lifetime for 'Me'

when this breath is cut let go of the whole universe...why not let go from the start?
'grasping hold of emptiness...' you want to talk about 'real'... show me one thing that is real...there's nothing real from the start

every day morning to night, gathering things...big and small,, name and recognition...gathering it up into your you're holding the golden key...busy your whole life for nothing...acting like a thief...why not put this energy to liberation?

put this mind to the Path"

from the film "Among White Clouds"

I’m in the middle of a desert wilderness outside of a concrete shack which seems to be fortified with wood in various parts. I am with my Dad’s family, specifically I can see my step-sister and my father. They seem very concerned with the time. My father asks us all to be aware of the time, yet he seems very confused and distracted. I ask why would we pay attention to the time, when we are here! I look over my shoulder, and the sun immediately dips down like a perfectly circular satchel of black tea into the boiling water of an endless Sahara horizon. Our surroundings turn to darkness, and suddenly I realize where I am. I can see the Sphynx, with its eyes aglow. Beside the Sphynx are other ruins, unseen in the light of day or at all in the modern ruins around the Great Pyramid. There are faces, of Pharaonic royalty and monuments indescribable. I don’t know how we got here, but I begin to become nervous as I see a local Egyptian, appearing to be a Bedouin trot down a nearby path on a camel. I asked them if they understood where we are and how this place seethes with forbidden territory. They don’t listen and wish to stay permanently, enamored and convinced this is the place they should be.

Together with my wife, we set off. On the road, we find ourselves boarding a mine cart and fleeing swiftly through a desert mountain landscape. As we near insurmountable cliffs, our cart somehow hovers blankly over the cliffs as if their steep inclines were lined with tracks. Upon a deserted hill, we come upon what appears as a Zen dojo or Buddhist shrine of some kind. I enter, leaving my wife behind to wait for me.

Inside the dojo shrine is a hermitage group in the presence of Allen Ginsberg. He is leading a hermitage in exercises of dreaming and fear; that is, how to overcome your fears through dreams. On the walls are psychedelic video art installations. There is an unspoken air of poetic thinking in the room, however subdued by a collective attitude of spiritual practice. When it is finally my chance to endeavor to see out the exercise before me, I am keen to try and overcome my fear through this dream. I am led, to enter myself in the other quarters of the dojo shrine. Its paper walls open at my approach, as I survey the empty quarters. A lightly carpeted staircase leads up to a dark upstairs room. I feel this will be my test. Inside the room, there is a table, upon which my fear resides. Adrenaline rushes. My scalp tingles uncontrollably. I look up, to see an alien figure, hairless and gray-skinned, shriveled and wrinkled, with inflated head. This figure seems relatively docile, however he holds a rope in his hand. Above his left shoulder, a smaller version of the same alien species lies hanged upon a noose. I look into this alien torture victim’s eyes and I see a piercing evil reverberating into every corner of my being with pure driving intensity from the only light in the room, emanating like diamonds from the pupils of the emaciated skull drooping with a deathly gaze, directly at me. I am overcome with fear and immediately exit, having failed at the exercise. I return to the room, the air is a polite majesty of compassion. I leave for my wife outside, who waits patiently.

What was Ginsberg trying to show me or trying to lead me towards; something old, withered with age or neglect, something so inhumane and non-human, yet so eerily resembling our human form, or something hidden deep within me, a part of myself that is all of those things and more, a thing I'm afraid only to confront?

Leaving nowhere

loopy adolescent
and boasting

a raucous
and numb
for nowhere

Tuesday, February 16 2010
Waiting for plane in ugly dim light of celebrity photograph restaurant in Calgary airport. 
Beer and soup.

Monday, 20 February 2012

Professional Dreaming unto the Last Horizon

[Werner Herzog]

"And how does it happen that we are encountering each other here at the end of the world?"

[Stefan Pashov (Philosopher, Forklift Driver)]

"I think that’s a logical place to find each other because this place works almost as a natural selection for people who have this intention to jump off the margin of the map and we all meet here, where all the lines of the map converge. There is no point that is south of the South Pole. I think there is a fair amount of the population here which are full-time travelers and part-time workers. So, yes those are the professional dreamers. They dream all the time. And I think through them the great cosmic dreams come into fruition because the universe dreams to our dreams. And, I think that there is many different ways for the reality to bring itself forward and dreaming is definitely one of those ways." 


"In the upswing of a jet train
cooling into the sonic blues
of a new world horizon
soothing the answers of the afraid
in mundane pockets of strange insignificance,
a judgment inane"

Saturday, 18 February 2012

A Mind Transcends Market Demand, and Returns Home to Find Nothing Left

Landscape with Aeneas at Delos by Claude Lorrain

"Why should a financial engineer be paid four times to a hundred times more than a real engineer. A real engineer builds bridges, a financial engineer builds dreams. When those dreams turn into nightmares, other people pay for it."
Andrew Sheng 
Chief Advisor, China Banking Regulatory Commission

From the film Inside Job


I begin walking outside of my grandmother’s house in upstate NY. I seem to have fled the house, where usually no one leaves when visiting because it lies in the middle of nowhere. I am walking down a hill, it seems at once to be in the Hampton Hills, where she lives, but also in Western Massachusetts, where I once took a hefty dose of LSD and walked all day on the country roadside. The northeastern forests bear down on my mind as spindly webs of the subconscious wilderness. Sooner or later, I end up nearing the house of my father, my stepmother waves her arm dramatically to motion me in as if I am a dog called inside. When I get in, it is Christmas morning, and my gifts are the gifts I’ve received from all the years being there for Christmas, loads of books on spirituality and Eastern thought, however in the form of mass market consumer items. I look through these books exhaustively and disgusted to no end, finding nothing.  


comrade against these forbidden culturati
timed to the arrival of the outdoor preacher 

worshiping the lost dead
world of stone and writing.

- excerpt from "Another Worldview"

Thursday, 16 February 2012

The New West of Dreams

It occurs to me that the Old West has become mythologized to conceal things about our past that were lost. What did we lose? Who did we pass that loss along to?

Hollow in the snow by Jean-Baptiste Armand Guillaumin

Autumn leaves drape over the ground. The parchment texture moistens in places, as leaf pigments turn to resemble how I would imagine our internal organs. We are staying at a house, where the cool drafts pass through every corner, and the outside smells better than the inside. We are in the wilderness, though I feel close to home with my old friend from school days back in the Northeast. He’s his usual nonchalant self. We all feel the way one feels a few hours after chain-smoking for days on end. We’re moving on out. The trouble is, the only drivable car is with less capacity than can accommodate the five or six of us needing to get some more supplies in town. We hit the road, I leave my friend behind.

We soon arrive at another house in much the same condition as ours after a ride through the tamed highway wilderness. There is still a calling, leading us out into the mushroom pasture beyond the roadside horizon. We enter a house much like ours; it is empty, with cereal boxes punctured by hungry worms and roving mice. We manage to salvage some granola and milk. Some stay behind and begin to smoke comfortably upon upholstery pockmarked with careless fire. There is now room in the car for my friend, who I’m surprised to see. At the same time, I find it somehow predictable that he’s mustered a stealth ability to show up unannounced at any moment in this drably subdued, heaving chest of fresh air and color admired faintly around us. With immediacy, we are isolated from our past and our future. Yet, there are pinholes of awareness, where our perception heightens to envision the crystalline beauty of our surroundings. It usually happens simultaneously with my old time friend. We now both live in the North American West, though so many miles apart in this vast regional territory of our deliberately open, youthful minds.

We arrive in a town resembling Northern California, where many young men and women once moved many years ago and simply kept wheeling “trees” to all the naïve newcomer spirits. There is a winking eye of newcomer and seasoned residence in these parts, separating us only by distances of a few miles at a time. Blonde dreadlocks and glass-blown artistry melt in a haze of fruitful laughter amongst new kinds of friends, whose eyes touch upon the truth that most friendships disintegrate into a stock of fiends. Now, we are unstable, and lack any apparent humanity in this consumptive island of molten bread and wallowing dreams.

The Page Mazeppa by Jean Louis Theodore Gericault

The dry air is crisp and cloudless over a small town in the dead of the Colorado winter. A silence is treasured with each step. The conservative decisiveness of every citizen follows quickly behind me, like a lingering pet surveying one’s every move. I clamber down from a high iron fence. I see two friends in dense black coats. They greet me simply and inexpressively move on further along their frozen sidewalk path.

There is a young local friend of mine. She is a masculine young woman, resembling Jean-Michel Basquiat in some features of her unadorned, spindly matted hair. She is a bold, creative type, yet stifled with destructive emotion and nasty habits. I can see her hiding a needle in the thick folds of her winter sweatshirt. She walks out into the grayscale concrete light, dimming with a vibratory curse, a mathematical fate, to put her underground. So, she thinks, she will take her life into her own hands, and throw the trash out herself. She shoots up, and meets a couple of tall white guys on an outskirts corner near an open field. I see them as I walk past one morning, thinking of how she was killed. The image of her walking away from me endures.

"whose giving breathes iridescent crystalline surety
under a city lain bare as a leafless twig 
in the winter of human occupation

over the frigid glare of our northern memories
fickle, as we approach a secondary wisdom
understood from blind precepts
that erase the open wounds found in deep cleansing
and spiritual promise"

- excerpt from "The Mythic West"

Tuesday, 14 February 2012

How All The Dreaming Began

Cyclical Wordplay
I was first turned on to Jerome Rothenberg through a keen interest in Ethnopoetics. When I stumbled upon "Poems and Poetics," I began to see the credibility behind writing a blog, where in his "prospectus" Rothenberg writes, "In this age of internet and blog the possibility opens of a free circulation of works (poems and poetics in the present instance) outside of any commercial or academic nexus."

JR's specific relation to Dream has been alluded to in his poetry foundation bio where it is written:

"Rothenberg has been particularly interested in the poetry of the North American Indians, both verbal and non-verbal: a poetry that can often be expressed, according to Rothenberg, in "music, non-verbal phonetic sounds, dance, gesture and event, game, dream, etc."

Patricia Monaghan stated: "[He] evokes the dream in, of, and through language more effectively than any other contemporary poet,"
Poem: Dreamwork Three by Jerome Rothenberg


Eventually, I found a great online supporter, a student of Rothenberg, through "Poems and Poetics" 

This is How All The Dreaming Began, or as Poet Tree writes:

"The angels don't want to listen to your stories, for to them
Dreams are all equal, they are what got you there."

Sunday, 12 February 2012

Skeletal Percussion under an Insurmountable Cliff in a Cairo-Western

Moses Striking Water from the Rock by Francesco Bacchiacca

I fail in my attempts to scale a sheer cliff face. The convex shaft of rock rises with crumbling shale and patches of vegetation. About 12 stories high, there a small plateau can be seen, whereupon a sparse array of pines and a wild horse appear at the glinting corner of my eye against the vertical immensity.

With extreme patience, I wait so long at the bottom, contemplating my journey up to the top of this rocky upshot plateau that my surroundings turn to nightfall. I am somewhere, it seems on a street corner of an old Western town mixed with a particular street corner in Zamalek, Cairo, Egypt where an old-fashioned, abandoned colonial bar still exists as the sole edifice of its kind across from the Iraqi embassy. It is nightfall and the dirt road is damp. Eyeing a nearby cat atop small, ramshackle homes and halfheartedly constructed projects, I shoe away stray dogs. I am playing an odd percussion instrument. With vertebrae, it seems of dog, horse and cat, in different sizes strung up, and hanging down off a piece of wood, I knock against them with the skull of a dog. The bone-knocking sound is then accompanied with a metallic cymbal-like object that I also strike against the differently-sized vertebrae hanging down in various lengths, to produce specific tones upon striking them. The sounds are enlightening, yet as the dog nearly kills a cat, attempting to chase it into certain death around my roofless quarters, I still yearn to rise with break of day and scale the rocky outcrop. 

Friday, 10 February 2012

Responding to the Critical Condition of Earth

Chapter 1

“An American oil baron eventually answered the call, building an open-pit mine with an upgrader in the 1960s. He used technology largely funded by Canadian taxpayers. Although the mine lost money for decades, it kept the dream alive.”

Chapter 2

“But neither the Alberta nor the Canadian government has done a thorough energy accounting yet.”

From: Tar Sands by Andrew Nikiforuk

A Response:

Canada is attempting to raise itself up on the shoulders of an entire world dependent on cheap oil resources, in the name of profit and political standing, Canada is dragging this world deeper into environmental degradation and addiction to fossil fuel-dependent, unsustainable life.

As people of this age, whether in Canada or not, we must all move in the direction of re-building our society, to live on this Earth, as focused on what is both local and sustainable as possible, in order to revise our habits of depending on food sources cultivated by the world's poorest, on clothing made by the world's most destitute and on materials and energy for our way of life which depend on the degradation of our environment and the destruction of small-scale and remote human communities. Our housing and transportation technologies are leading us towards inevitable destruction, displacement and complete abandonment of the human community. Why have we chosen to neglect our future generations and remain ignorant about the creative solutions that we know we can achieve to change all of this in our own lives?

Wednesday, 8 February 2012

Dream Interrogations and Literal Family Torture from Montego Bay

Port-en-Bessin, Entrance to the Harbor by Georges Seurat

Why are waking notions of the word dream a synonym for something to attain…where as in the notion of a subconscious dreaming, the word dream connotes a separate reality. Where is the relationship between these two associations? Is the difference between waking and subconscious perspective or in the idea of dream itself?

I am sitting at my grandmother’s couch in coastal Massachusetts. She shows me a pop can with Chinese characters on it, and mentions something about Hawaii. Next, my mother offers my wife and I a trip to the Caribbean. Through a song of my uncle about Montego Bay, I imagine I am in Montego Bay. The hotel resort is as one would typically imagine an upscale hotel resort in the Caribbean to appear. In my hotel room, however, my toes and fingers and parts of my chest and head are being wired to a torture device that my stepfather is operating. I attempt an escape from the hotel resort, but it turns into a kind of Cretan Labyrinth, where the Taurus is my own family. 

Monday, 6 February 2012

The Undeniable Truth...Interpreting the Dreams of Sun Ra

"...human history has not been an inevitable march towards a brighter future, that the world as constructed by Christianity, capitalism, and imperialism of all kinds is indeed doomed to self-immolation, and that man’s only hope is to radically reject the present and to dream of new and previously unimagined futures."

The "undeniable truth" written by OtherPlanesofThere, can be found on an exclusive Sun Ra Blog and on UbuWeb

Saturday, 4 February 2012

Jazz for the Year of the Dragon

The Dream

"Though we are told to mourn it, we must know that it was a noble sound. It had majesty. Yes, it was majestic. Deep down in the soul of it all, where the notes themselves provide the levels of revelation we can only expect of great art, it formed a bridge. That’s right, a bridge. A bridge that stretched from the realm of dreams to the highways and byways and thoroughfares and back roads of action. To be even more precise, let me say that this sound was itself an action..." 

The Dragon

"...Some people might ask, “What is this man doing talking about nobility? Doesn’t he know that this is a dragon-spawned and blood-encrusted century? Doesn’t he know that the dragon breath of our time is breathing down the neck of the year 2000? Doesn’t he know that this is the era of flash and cash?” ..."

written by Stanley Crouch, delivered by Reverend Jeremiah Wright Jr. 

This is the Year of the Dragon in Chinese Astrology. Let us listen to the ancient and modern forms of the myth interweave with our creative dream for a new reality, a novel sound, to transcend the European Dragons of Mythic Evil and enter into the Astrological Dream of Good Luck, Power and Creative Strength in this the luckiest year of the Chinese Zodiac.

Thursday, 2 February 2012

Dreams from the Arab World: Deadly Play and the Chaos of Freedom

Kalila and Dimna, jackal tale scene: the crow king and his counselors by Arab painters around 1210

for those who lost their lives...

Dream of Youngest Female Nobel Prize Winner Tawakkul Abdel-Salam Karman

From her acceptance speech:

"We were able to efficiently and effectively maintain a peaceful revolution in spite of the fact that this great nation has more than 70 million firearms of various types. Here lies the philosophy of the revolution, which persuaded millions of people to leave their weapons at home and join the peaceful march against the state’s machine of murder and violence just with flowers and bare breasts, and filled with dreams, love and peace."


Semi-circle monkey bars, rusty, old, they rise to a very high altitude at center.

I’m videotaping an expert at crossing the most dangerous part of this abandoned playground. I cross multiple times, as I go on and on, it becomes foggy and humid. At the center, there is an opening, where my mind goes blank because I feel it’s impossible to cross, but I cross

At the last crossing, when I reach the bottom, it feels as if I am in an abandoned, mechanical children’s playground in Egypt, and I remember an Egyptian girl who seems like my girlfriend…yet she is missing. I flash to a scene that looks like her parents, and local police. They are speaking in Arabic, searching for her. I flashback to being directly on top of the semi-circle monkey bars, my friend who I am videotaping reminds me that he’s gotten rid of my poetry books because they give evidence of the missing girl…I flash in my mind these poetry books, immaculately printed with full color photos of the girl and professionally written poetry…I go to a field, and a mass of people are reciting this poetry, it seems I am at a funeral.

Sunday, January 29