last night of October’s dream

After taking an escalator to a rooftop I found her on crutches, misery hanging off the points of her face. It was one of those sunny days, the high clouds providing enough refraction that squinting was rendered as a mere expression of discernment. I approached her with the resolve of opportunity and the insurance of a full conversation, both conveniently presented by my genuine concern. “What happened?” I asked with eyebrows bent by some invisible weight that I held at the middle of my forehead. She explained she injured herself playing soccer, also mentioning some accident involving another sport with a net. We had managed our way as naturally as magnets to a bench beside the canopied edge of the roof. The green spades of leafy plants decorated the rooftop, filling peripheral vision with oasis among the sharp and sunned concrete angles of the scene which, with a steady flowing mill of faceless people making their purposeless way across the dream like color hungry shadows, gave the impression that it was actually a boundless city square or some ethereal terminal between destinations no one cared for reaching. She told me, in a way that told me she did not know what else to say, that it had been long since we last talked. It was that all-and-everything which she would not say and the precision with which she did not say it that threw the unexplainable meaning whose nature seems to depend on undiscovery into the air like a dozen eggs; which, if one actually managed to be caught, would break nonetheless by the graceless attempt of clumsy hands unlearned in the laws of physics, leaving only the raw essence of some fraction of an invisible whole in palms whose first reaction would be to wipe the translucent mess off. She was telling me I was too late for the train that never left; the station, platform and all, had somehow disappeared—obliterated by the deadly force that time wields. Her friend with the pillowy face appeared at my left. “Hugh’s looking for you,” she announced through her pudgy cheeks. “Hugh?” She answered with some surprise, then turning to me She translated her need to leave. I think I sat there a while trying to comprehend our meeting. I joined the ghostly forms wandering the terminal, pulled by their own spells. As I rode the escalator down I spied them on one of the canopied benches. I caught Hugh staring at me and at once a current of electricity looped a circuit of understanding that was lost as fast as it was comprehended. As I descended into shadows a heaviness filled me like a verdict I could not understand. I awoke aware of the gravity.

Nocturnal pretender

it is 4:11 AM. I have a 5-7 page essay due at 9:00 AM. I have less than a page done. I have a shitload of pre-writing on Lacanian Psychoanalysis of The Great Gatsby in my notebook (over 6 pages). I can’t seem to formulate a thesis I like. It’s 4:14 AM. I cooked pasta for my roommates after they got home from the club and who are now all asleep. I cannot write this essay. I’ve been thinking about a lot of things lately. It’s 4:17 AM. I lied. It’s 4:15 AM–no now 4:16 AM. I’m watching the time. slip. a. way. AH! My mind is awake, my body is pissed off. My heart is heavy, my soul flies higher. My self spins in it self and around with the revolving earth revolving around the sun revolving around the milky way galaxy revolving around the super cluster of galaxies… will it ever be… 4:20 AM. Insomnia. Fake insomnia. Nocturnal pretender. The girl with the glasses did not notice me today. I have a shitload of essays due next week. God save the Queen. Thunderbolt and lightning, very very frightening. Zeus, full circle. 4:23 AM. Reading time in none of it, or smaller parts of it. fll n th blnks wth vwls tht r sddnly vnshd… I I E A I O E A A E U E A I E 4:26 i AM getting tired… Lacanian Psychoanalysis! Gatsby’s greed, Gatsby as victim, immersed in Imaginary Order, swallowed up by The Real, unable to function in society, desperately trying to fit 4 dimensional ideas onto a 3 dimensional surface. To be or not to be 4:28 AM that is the question whether tis nobler in the mind… yada yada half the semester gone again 4:29 AM October again 4:29 AM what’s a season

Yet Untitled, Chapter 0.27 (in progress)

To incur the wrath of a woman is to challenge water. Drowning not drizzle. Her heart is a spherical storm, a planet rounding some undeserving star in an impossibly vast universe charted with futility by the pens of drunkards. Their voices now are each a distinct wind that marked the early calender of my life and which now grow louder as by some second vexing moon, waxing and waning like a wild conviction, like an animal, like God himself. They, scanning the air becoming more convinced that this is not His test but more His will, are moved with the blind force of elements which have built momentum. “”Mass can neither be created or destroyed,” like a science: Woman is an ocean.

Who has set sail with nothing to gain but lost time? Their crumbling stories sent back through the shivers of children held together like ice in a paper cup: the foolish and unprepared.

A year ago I would know my Lola as the walker of beaches, sure footed, following Jesus with her hands held behind her back with pious solemnity, gripping the beads of some invisible rosary and padding bearfoot along the sand, meditating the decades.

“Gabriel: may I ha’b a ride to church?” or “Gabriel: will you please bring me and my p’riends to Saint B’eronica’s?” and, always with a laugh: “Oh! Thank you Gabriel,” or struggling to rise from the sun broken seat of my Trans Am: “I will buy you a new car,” slapping my arm shyly like she just hadn’t gotten around to it, “when I win the lotto.”

Lolo did but she never gambled, so the paint on my car was safe to continue peeling. I wonder what numbers she would have chosen; her favorite bible verses, no doubt–or the strategic birthdays of children, grandchildren: “ang apo ko.” I myself have only purchased a dozen or so quickpicks since I turned eighteen and been to the casino only once to play a very regretful game of blackjack the morning after Thanksgiving.

Lament On A Jagged Raft

Camped in the furnace of fast sand,
an animal of sorts of an unknown kingdom–
most anything are wings,new wings, wet wings,
told air is for breathing we drown in our flight.

To hang is to ask medusa to paint a dream–
Géricault’s captain, you were my submarine.
Then I glued an ocean to the ceiling,
imagined skying the canvas like Icarus.

There were no umbrellas
when the drool of dead men
flooded nothing with emptiness, freezing
feathers like clay in an ancient kiln.

A beach could mirror a rainbow,
If only I would melt into oil.

it’s a boy

ever feel like no matter how hard you try, you just can’t get up? i feel ya pup:

IFLT! Part II

i found a dollar earlier, walking on campus! made me think about a video i posted last year under “I feel like this!” made me smile–plus i’m a dollar richer. the past two days i’ve gotten about 8 hours of sleep, which isn’t bad, but it’s not really good. been reading and writing into the wee hours of the morning–watching the sky go from black to blue–days blurring. feels good getting my work done though. i almost didn’t make it this morning. at around 3am i decided to take a break and lie down for a little rest. next thing i know i’m falling asleep–and when i try to snap out of it and rise from the couch–BAM! i become paralyzed and start to feel that sensational rush like shadows holding me down. no matter how hard i try i can’t get up. i try to relax and let it pass then try again, but i have no strength. i remember thinking: “damn maybe i’m so sleep deprived [possibly famished] that my brain straight up won’t let my body function. i begin to pray and the shadows holding me down begin to fade, but when i try to get up then, they come back and there’s ringing in my ears–i hear sounds like random music–i think my mind even began generating voices and there was coherent speech. i guess i just fell asleep eventually ’cause i woke up and shook it off and tried to do my paper, only to catch myself asleep in a sitting position with my left foot fully asleep. after i got life back in it i went to sit at the dining table where i finally began writing my paper as the black night turned into that familiar inky bruise of dawn. yeah, i have some trippy sleep/dream experiences–i just hope it’s not unhealthy–knock on wood. i finished my paper = i did everything i needed to get done this week = great success! and in class today my group was totally helpful in that it helped my really understand everything that was going on in The Cariboo Cafe a short story we had to read, the people in my group are cool and totally picked me up today. and i found a dollar! just one of those days

Out for blood

Fudge. I’m feeling a little like a wounded puppy right now. I just got my first reading response back from my hundred dub class–andifailed! “Yes, I’ll take a Wahhburger and french cries with extra weaksauce on the side.” Duuuuude. I really misunderstood the directions for this assignment. I sooo must have been dazing off in class when she was going over how to do our responses, ’cause all i had written down was “reflection on poem/ 300 words” Soooo being the genius that i am–i just wrote how i felt about the poem. God, i don’t care about the grade–i’m more concerned about my reputation with this professor! I don’t want her to think i’m a friggin idiot. I want to confront her and say “Dr. H, your pity! this is my first semester as an English major! your pity!” That voice inside of me wants to protect me from anyone and everyone who i fall short of literary mastery with. And to be quite Frankenstein, I want to bitch slap the owner of that voice. I gotta stop making excuses and scooby–Do-work-son! I gotta pay attention in class. I gotta take serious time and do my homework. I gotta read! I gotta sharpen my sense of literature. I gotta conduct myself like a responsible man–i’m an adult–i gotta start acting like one. I gotta kill this next reading response.

a little bit more than a whisper

I had another encounter similar to last Sunday’s “instant dream” last night [Oddly enough it has been exactly a week since]. This time was different, however. I was up late reading, as usual. When I finally decided to call it a night, i turned off the lights and lay on my right side (right ear, opposite from last week). After a while i started to doze off.

I suddenly became aware that i was half asleep when i heard a girls voice reaching me. It came in a strange language that i could not distinguish, i don’t think it was a known language. It was a whisper–maybe a little bit more than a whisper. Then i remember feeling sensations. At the moment i cannot remember how they were so i cannot describe the feelings. All i know is that my body felt a physical sensation.

Then i remember gaining a little more consciousness, like I was only three eighths asleep. Then I remember the heavy buzz of sleep paralysis hovering over my ears and eyes. Then I remember the buzz suddenly attacking me–the sleep paralysis hit me. This time I did not go into an instant dream [i remember thinking as i lay there: "here it comes"] BUT i did not go into sleep paralysis either. The buzz just seemed to embody some space between my eyes and vibrate, i remember feeling like it had a shape, like a ball of electric squiggly lines.

then it left. i was able to rise and change positions [while this was all happening, i don't remember if i did actually have the ability to move--but i do remember i did not even want to move].

I turned on my stomach, waiting to see if i might be pulled into an instant dream. I didn’t happen. I drifted off unknowingly.

for once in eternity

okay. this one is for you. since i stumble on this subject ever so frequently (yet ever so selectively, (you can call me a connoisseur)).

i see us laughing;
that is,
i see you
and me
delighting
(almost utterly)
in each others
togetherness,
where
i am being me
for
you and you
are being
you for me

and We

just are.
Are as in
i can see you
in my

Arms.Arms

as i
see

you&me
sidebyside

Pulling
at the same thing
(which is always just your smile),

and in that
most envious of moments
we are untouchable

and i am happy because you

are laughing.

clocks will shrug
and move on

(lacking,
for once in eternity

:Us).

Saint Gabriel is Left-handed

I saw him one night
No one was awake
At two forty five
A.M.

He came by way of
Clouds dressed in moonlight

If you were there
I would tell you
What to look for

“See his head at top right
His arm behind, about to strike
Below his chin, his shield”

Down came the sword,
Disappearing,
Revealing
The white wound

I closed my eyes
And drunk the blood.

(God listens
To a Child.