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A dream where I’m lost in space:
.
a rectangular swathe of white ground (about 30 feet long and 20 feet wide) beneath, nothing but blackness above and all around a choir of children’s voices beset me in surround-sound from giant speakers I cannot see a nostril-crinkling smell (like Gruyere cheese melting under a grill) crinkles nostrils as strong wind blows dragging hair back on head with invisible fingers
.
voices sing Step on a crack look down and notice that along with the rest of me feet are bare ‘white ground’ beneath soles as dry flimsy blue Rizla paper clicking sound fills aural space when voices pause evenly spaced rows of thinstraightbluelines crossing magic carpet surfing inky-black night swallows me up straight and fine
.
lines… the word ‘feint’ comes to mind the why exceeding grasp gasp with each click a small round hole appears in the (gradually turning yellow) fabric I’m precariously standing upon what with the color and the randomly dotted holes I dont I dot I do believe that the fabric is metamorphosing into a huge slice of Swiss cheese beginning to feel faint start walking carefully exerting all the force I can muster keep on straight and narrow and an arrow through the head for Custer (in the kitchen)
.
voices again: Break your mother’s back followed by a series of clicks the sound of paper-hole-puncher pumping out punched holes like confetti each step I take more harrowing dangerous than the last time walking forward faster more frantic with every footfall knowing all the while that at any moment now I will step into a Blackhole forever
falling
Backwards
In Time.
.
Tick-tick-tick. Through space –
.
click-click-click
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Same sound fills ears only now the flying slice of magic cheese has turned back into the bed and the bunched-up pillows punched up for support.
.
Pen poised at the ready, I’m wondering (yet again) where the sound is coming from. Is it Dad ? If I’m right, I won’t disturb him, it’s very late and he’ll be wondering what I’m doing up. If I’m wrong and he’s fast asleep, I’ll slip in and steal a cigarette. Lines or no lines.
Could sure use a smoke right about now.
later
Crescent moon hangs precariously on flatvelvet backdrop. Cheese by ashtray on bedside table – a lump thereof: stiff and oily as a Madam Tussaud waxwork. Like some far away planet glowing in the moon’s jaundiced light.
.
Words crawl in. Words crawl out. Words play pinochle on your snout. Spilling inkblack upon virgin (no longer) page.
.
Cheese before bed. Bad idea if you want to avoid vivid dreams. It’s all the ‘B’ vitamins. In the cheese, I mean.
.
,
B’s. Beware: Bumps, Bends and Blackholes Dead Ahead. Lump of Swiss. Lump in throat. Can’t swallow down words anymore. They’re gushing up and spurting out at breakneck speed, and fall mouthless, treading paper carefully between lines.
getting down to it
.
spilling the beans
.
stepping on a crack…
.
breaking your mother’s back
.
Lump of hashish next to cheese. A kind and unexpected gift - or ‘token’ if you will - backhanded to me by Mikey this morning as he headed off to work after a short, unplanned visit and a quick cup of coffee. He said the guys were meeting up next Friday to shoot the shit and roll the die and that I’d better turn up this time, or else! I think I just might.
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Is it hash?
.
Well, it’s hashish.
.
That’s clever. You’re funny!
.
You make me laugh, too. Thanks.
.
Beside the cheese. Near the wasted roach
.
in a bed of dust
.
dead in the ashtray
.
Words. BlackhOles
cosmic forces
c a s
h o ran
dom
travel
TIME
matter
Energy
ngth equilibrium
Wav
ele
bleed shiny from silver nib
pulling themselves
up by bootstraps
out of dark weedy place
go marching across page
arm in arm two by two
grab your partner dosey-doe!
dancing words
footloose
fancyfree
high
stepping
out
stepping
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