"I was asleep, why will you never let me sleep?
"I felt lonely."
"I had a dream."
"Oh, don't tell me."
"Don't tell me!"
"This one is enough for you."
From "Waiting for Godot" by Samuel Beckett
I know here. The green wafting streaks of sky, the iris of Venus and tail smoke of the passing jet on the wide-open horizon. Manhattan is a gorgeous home. The winds pray a unity between every passerby and neighbor, lifted into the star-born heights. I pass by a group of peers, walking towards the underground concert. My building is a popular one tonight. Rows of followers bedeck the graffiti concrete sidewalk pathways down into the lair of raw music. Above, my apartment teems with life. The partied flaw of a missed generation of youth wails with unheard rhyme in the melodious burn of smoke and cash.
After a drink, I stammer underneath the foundation. A wealthy set up; simulacra of electric night, urban fantasies of steam and the stroboscopic hunt prepare the space for a name, a god, an image, a face, a sound, and the restless warning of day, undeserved in the hollow loose of masterful ceremonies. In the post-modern dirge, plain and simple yearnings for the breath of magic in life, waning in the new moon phase of skyward lust. The discolored throat opens to emit its holy hole under groundless feet moving to the belly of earth’s final tempting before she retracts our wasted tongue of divinity.
"If drunk on wine, you will be fortune in trade and love-making, and will scale exalted heights in literary pursuits. This dream is always the bearer of aesthetic experiences...Drunkenness in all forms is unreliable as a good dream. All classes are warned by this dream to shift their thoughts into more healthful channels." (iDream)
________alone, centered by intoxication and my forlorn host,
brother, in demise,
a lonesome paradox in disguise,
read and weep, as the ancients' rowing
cabins alight with pages
in the eyes of warring children
who cry in blood
and tear from the sod with teeth, cracked
amid the skeleton earth, war torn
greed, strapped aimlessly to the butterfly
home bearing Trotskyan steeds
in the fight to bring back wealth
to the lands of Zapatista
covered with stark, oppressive emotion
and chained, now
to the oriental rug
- excerpt from "turning over the ashes of the unnamed"