(no subject)
I had a dream of dead rats in a bag. They framed me for who I really was. The Italian man in his black Jeep tagging along behind me with no lights on, the green sticker on my car wheel, the nearly identical white van. The man was trying to kill me and I say, I say, to Daddy, to Daddy I say, "won't you help me please, father." And I tell him the tale. He's nodding, moving, not looking at me, and drives off. I do not know what happens, but I am in danger. The chiseled man in the auditorium, glancing over a million strangers and strutting his cock, "Blasphemy! BLASPHEMY!" I can find an escape. He holds me. He holds me, his fingers on my tongue. I flip her over my shoulder-- we are on a streak hill, you see, a steep hill. The elevator threatens to pull off my hair, but I am on the top side. My feet are in his face; I can smell the shoe. We stop, I run, and I find the dead rats-- he has 1, I have 10, mine are suffocation ziplocs. I am amazed at how I can still run amidst all the disorientation.