Poet-Doctor, Drugs and Dreams Are Your Friend

Le Rêve du docteur by Albrecht Dürer

"I never dream. When you’re psychotic, you don’t dream. Mugwort is an herb you can pick up at any local herbal shop. Although the tea is mildly poisonous, it can be drunk. Mugwort tea induces vivid, memorable dreams. Dreaming makes me feel normal. I feel connected with everyone through dreaming."

- from a conversation with a local poet and friend, David Rhoads

_______

Night in the suburbs, I jangle out onto the main road in a banged up old Volvo. The car is full of assorted items, the floors are mostly covered in piles of junk and the like. As I step on the gas, I see I’m driving unusually fast, though only about five mph above the speed limit. My lights are never working fine; I’m usually pulled over every time a cruiser spots me. 

In a shadowy nook, I see the dimmed lights of police, out for the catch. As I approach, the lights whir and sound. Still, I am in disbelief. “Again!” They must know me well by now. The cop who stops me perks with dissatisfied boredom as she clambers around awkwardly in the car for an extended time. My friend and I stand outside the car, weary and stung with silent cursing. Then, the overweight female cop raises one finger; it is covered with a green dust in the blaring flashlight. 

She inspects the dust carefully before swiftly grabbing my arms and locking them in a tight hold. “I’ve found marijuana in your car, you are under arrest!” I fight with murderous intensity. “What! All you found was a fingertip swipe of dust!” I am in awe of the local law’s asinine decision-making. As I squirm in contempt, defiant with unforgiving intensity, the lady cop calls for backup. 

In a matter of seconds, an SUV pulls up ahead of the first cruiser with two large, burly officers emerging in a torrent of violent forewarning. They attempt to handcuff me with riot strength, steaming in a haze of purposeless might. I loosen myself easily and struggle with unmatched will. Suddenly, I’m thrown back ten feet with a blood concussion, face puffed with blood, roughed up interminably by a single blow. 

On my way from a police car onto the steps of the police station and courthouse, I regain consciousness. A man on the sidewalk recognizes me. “Remember your permanent residency application!” he advises warmly. I am put before an authoritative lawman. I state my case. “Sir, this is an unjust conviction, I am on my way to gaining residency to live with my wife, this will put me under, don’t let a finger swipe of dust ruin this man’s life.” He takes pity on me. 

Later, I go on to liberate the entire northeast of North America from its bitter criminalization of personal marijuana use.

______

Drugs
"The interpretation of drugs in your dreams depends on the relationship you have with the drugs in your daily life and if they are doctor prescribed or not...The drugs could be suggesting a need for healing and getting in balance. Your unconscious mind may be suggesting outrageous things in hopes that you get the message to 'have fun, dream dreams, and get out of your own head!' Please keep in mind that the purpose of dreams is to raise our consciousness and to assist us in having better lives." (iDream)

______

"preposterous!"
said the proud visiting Englishman
in dismay,
"the army and police force will be trained
by the crown herself,
and no undue report will become of any loyal
to the blank calm
that befuddles our propaganda-fed livestock population"

- excerpt from "preposterous!"

The Genocidal Unconscious of America

“The U.S. is a strange society because I think consciously the country wants to believe that it does good and that it has, you know, good intentions around the world and it’s not very in touch with its subconscious self that is a lot meaner and a lot more homicidal than the self that it would like to acknowledge.”

- Charles Abourezk, Supreme Court Justice for the Rosebud Sioux Tribe

___________

With an unusual collection of friends who have never before met in person, including my childhood neighbor and my best friend in Calgary, we all set out on bikes through a nearby forest path to the ocean. We are excitable, older and more aware of our environment than ever. There is a confident appreciation for the anticipated wilderness charm ahead. As we exit the neighborhood onto the main street, still lacking any signage dedicated to non-motored travel, there is a foreboding stimulus from afar as an interrupted vacuity of law overtakes the street-laden, forested horizon. We all stretch our necks backward, blithe with eager enthusiasm to find our way to the secluded ocean vista. As we comfortably engage on our briefly paved portion of the path, a paddy wagon stops in front of us. Lights blazing with ingenious madness; the government insinuation is of madness and futility. Officers exit their vehicle, pursuing our humiliated, fading glory with a clown-faced repertoire of deception and misinformation. One cop hands me a crinkled dollar bill. Hesitant, I grab its frayed edge. As soon as the act of derogation ensues, another cop hands one of my friends, visiting from Canada, a ticket of over one hundred dollars. Sitting down, exasperated with inner frustration, my friend refuses the ticket. I take it for him as to not cause a stir.

The cops press on with deliberation, attempting to get a rise out of us through any and every means at their wicked disposal. Soon, our bikes are in the back of the van. “What have we done?” I ask myself with intensive speculation. The air smells of fish and pig, putrid. Their glares are fuel to the fire. Letting us out at my neighborhood friend’s home only a few paces away by car, as to pour salt on our bleary, wounded minds. One cop asks my friend, “What’s your family background?” He smiles patiently and responds, “Well, I’m English, and ummm…” the silence is emphasized by the piercing stare of the officer denouncing his Asian eyes with an understated slur. “And Dutch!” I say, in support of my friend before the awful reception of the savage, unannounced feigning of America’s pitiful counterterrorism. Defeated, the rest of my friends join my neighbor into his house for drinks and an indoor evening, while I angrily bike down the hill to my mother’s house with the ticket in my pocket. “I’ve got to tell them about the insipid brink of justice coagulating around our neighborhood with such asinine hubris.” I consider introspectively.

Red flashing lights drown the usual calm haze around my mother’s suburban home with inconceivable villainy. As I ride smoothly around the back of the house to peer out into the driveway stealthily, I can’t believe my eyes. “Another police raid, we are innocent! The police are the guilty ones these days.” I curse their heavy hog-head presence on our property. They have torn apart the entire garage. My stepfather stands on his smooth driveway pavement dumbfounded, entrenched in the unwelcome malevolence. Domestic counterterrorism laws have been enacted. To the local police, now in full operation as a military state, no heed is recognized for the delicate peace and earnest honesty attributed to the very population whose lives have been dedicated to their government services. Through force, the government takes full advantage of the interlocking mutuality behind the dual inception of insurmountable trickery. “When will America’s children realize they have only cheated themselves?” I clamber on, to ride myself through the neglected wilderness path. There is an ocean beyond.  

_________

Police

"If the police are trying to arrest you for some crime of which you are innocent, it foretells that you will successfully outstrip rivalry...A dream involving the police means you feel guilty for not honouring a promise or obligation...The police could be addressing Karmic Law as well as the laws in our physical world...Old dream interpretation books say that dreaming about police is an indication that you will obtain unexpected assistance with a current problem." (iDream)

________

Preconception, the snowball effect, and the end of humanity.

Thematic Abuse.
Two Versions (one for public, one unmodified).

Lost familiarity.
Generations.

“What blue fire has been found hidden these last few days?”

“It is the tax of the many on the few”

And the brandished awareness of our single life
followed into the brazen evening with full vigour.

The young woman revealed her teeth
and wore a short vision on her ring
that lacked the ability to forget.

Her rhythmic movements lied agape
to preserve our entrenched faculty
to be remorseful and sick.

We lie in the unbounded grease
of a pandemic conspiracy,
a mass confusion,
ringing clear as the empty sky
before each face, it sings wryly
behind a mask of enraged pain.

“It is a race to the beginning!”

“The thieves of fire are out to lunch today and we have no one left to hear…to see…to be…”

The groundless mire of slick urbanized gore
lets a finishing cackle into the murderous air
as we slink in our beds engrossed
in the contemplative gold of our own breath
…softly giving way to the perfected sleep
that buys dreamless jewelry from the rocks of visceral stress.

“Illiterate, unreliable, lazy mediocrity, feigning humanity"

"Who is that
who cherishes the meaningless fog?

It covers our sanity…”

Animals quiver with stagnant pleas
whimpering in their cages
and blinking tears into the loveless dust
of the meat they will sacrifice
to a mouth blocked with a family honor
so loud it tears to fuck
all the beauty of being one species.

Feb. 20, 2010

Seizure of the Father from the Western Family

Fighting Forms by Franz Marc

Taking place on the property of my Father’s house, there is great tension in the air as the house is stormed by government police, I hide somewhere near the trailer with my sister as I exit in similar fashion to the end of the movie “The Professional” I am caught, however, by officials after a standoff where my sentencing is escalated by the moment due to my non-cooperative actions as they assault me with shotguns and take me into custody, some of my family members there seem to have been killed as there was an incident involving drugs or an unclear criminal derivative of that sort. I am in the back of a police car, and exclaiming, “I am someone” in multifarious expressions as my life sentencing is foreseen by the accompanying police officer and in my mind, life takes a turn for the exceptionally terminal. Call it a nightmare, if you will.

September 11, 2011