(no subject)
What a dream,
the water tearing at the rocks as three youths sit at the edge of the shore telling...
i dont remember the limbs of that boy, dont remember his laugh.. he was framed somewhere, across the atlantic. the picture vague, the words, the thoughts, even vaguer. He was brought up to think of himself as stupid, maybe ill figured, dreaming all the time and a pussy. he wouldnt fight ever. a reoccuring dream of raising his fist only to find his arm weak and powerless. he was the prince of nothing. Only darkness over the meditteranean and whispers and odes to confusion and carelessness. Thus spoke god, with unrelenting love and care for the forsaken and drifting.
The pilgrimage began every midnight. The green key turning in the lock, mother coughing her lungs out in her bed, or crying or something like that. steps out into the dark apartment hallway. Down the elevators, humming with something. out the door and into the empty AM streets with only eyes and heart. Walking, everyone and everything were spirits in the doorways, monsters in the dark alleys, but when they approached, they were like fragments of dreams. they were parts of god, angels from the deep valley. I talked to these people. these people were my family. the crazys of night. the arabs of the shore, working the marina. I watched everyone. the kids in the backs of yellow seats, working their way up to heaven in conversation. the silent beach.
i was warned not to leave my home by foot when i lived in houston as a child. it was too dangerous. too many men who were eager to kidnap a little boy. to take him away from his family and his home or chase him with knives into the night. Everywhere we went i was scared. scared of losing my mother in the middle of a supermarket more than she was scared of losing me. Awake all night in my little bed listening for noises from the kitchen. so many times completely sure someone was in the house. Someone with horrible plans on his mind like the murderers on the news who tore babies out of their mothers wombs for no reason. Horror would come for no reason. i would circle my parents bed untill daybreak, scared of the moonlight and the awful midnight dreams. Scared of noises and visions i could not control. scared of the blooming leafy life. the horrid garden of dementia. the roaches and spiders of will. they taught me how to talk.
the water tearing at the rocks as three youths sit at the edge of the shore telling...
i dont remember the limbs of that boy, dont remember his laugh.. he was framed somewhere, across the atlantic. the picture vague, the words, the thoughts, even vaguer. He was brought up to think of himself as stupid, maybe ill figured, dreaming all the time and a pussy. he wouldnt fight ever. a reoccuring dream of raising his fist only to find his arm weak and powerless. he was the prince of nothing. Only darkness over the meditteranean and whispers and odes to confusion and carelessness. Thus spoke god, with unrelenting love and care for the forsaken and drifting.
The pilgrimage began every midnight. The green key turning in the lock, mother coughing her lungs out in her bed, or crying or something like that. steps out into the dark apartment hallway. Down the elevators, humming with something. out the door and into the empty AM streets with only eyes and heart. Walking, everyone and everything were spirits in the doorways, monsters in the dark alleys, but when they approached, they were like fragments of dreams. they were parts of god, angels from the deep valley. I talked to these people. these people were my family. the crazys of night. the arabs of the shore, working the marina. I watched everyone. the kids in the backs of yellow seats, working their way up to heaven in conversation. the silent beach.
i was warned not to leave my home by foot when i lived in houston as a child. it was too dangerous. too many men who were eager to kidnap a little boy. to take him away from his family and his home or chase him with knives into the night. Everywhere we went i was scared. scared of losing my mother in the middle of a supermarket more than she was scared of losing me. Awake all night in my little bed listening for noises from the kitchen. so many times completely sure someone was in the house. Someone with horrible plans on his mind like the murderers on the news who tore babies out of their mothers wombs for no reason. Horror would come for no reason. i would circle my parents bed untill daybreak, scared of the moonlight and the awful midnight dreams. Scared of noises and visions i could not control. scared of the blooming leafy life. the horrid garden of dementia. the roaches and spiders of will. they taught me how to talk.