she who casts the first stone
I dreamed a raven
came to me in a box
and it laid no eggs,
only rocks
as a child I, a folk hero,
barefoot to the limestone,
climbed a great tower
of nature, my mother.
I looked down
and all at once felt
all things
great and small.
Lately I've been dreaming about water in some form. There was a waterfall and a pool in one where I climbed up those giant rocks, another with a tidal wave that destroyed me and most of Boston, and finally after trying to pry open a giant manhole cover with mom, I looked out on a great lake with tiny fishing boats and a single steam ferry puffing along the bank. "Strange how all the school buses seem so large." she says.
I called into work last night because I felt absolutely awful - but at the same time the opposite. I don't know what's happening to me. Yesterday I felt lost in some literary fog. Something from Nostalgia comes to mind: poets consume themselves, authors consume others. I feel I am being eaten up by everything. Pressure from outside sources mixed with an internal buildup of something, something, something, I don't know what. Sometimes I feel like I am out of focus, fading away, etc. The limbo of waiting rooms and lines at some imaginary bank. Then I imagine again this cloud of words forming over my head and filling the room until I suffocate. Songs stay in my head for awhile, then they're gone. "Soon" might be my favorite word. I don't know why this is relevant.
I had a dream where N. tried to climb up a giant tree to reach me, I had pizza. Instead she took a longer route involving hills and tunnels and so much unnatural geography taking up so much time and space that I gave up and walked away.
Some anonymous, erroneous comment about Scott Walker: maybe he wouldn't have so many bad dreams if he had worked a day in his life. I have never had a true nightmare that I recall.
There's a memory from when I was ten, eleven, twelve, somewhere. Some game, sticks and branches as weapons with neighborhood children. I hit a girl in the throat and she cries so much that I panic and run off to a friend's house. Mom catches up to us with the help of some rat who later would (or already had) run me over with an electric powered plastic jeep. At first I'm punished, then I cry so much that mom gives in and lets the same friend I was running to come over to play. In my mind's eye the girl looks just like you. Does this mean anything at all?
came to me in a box
and it laid no eggs,
only rocks
as a child I, a folk hero,
barefoot to the limestone,
climbed a great tower
of nature, my mother.
I looked down
and all at once felt
all things
great and small.
Lately I've been dreaming about water in some form. There was a waterfall and a pool in one where I climbed up those giant rocks, another with a tidal wave that destroyed me and most of Boston, and finally after trying to pry open a giant manhole cover with mom, I looked out on a great lake with tiny fishing boats and a single steam ferry puffing along the bank. "Strange how all the school buses seem so large." she says.
I called into work last night because I felt absolutely awful - but at the same time the opposite. I don't know what's happening to me. Yesterday I felt lost in some literary fog. Something from Nostalgia comes to mind: poets consume themselves, authors consume others. I feel I am being eaten up by everything. Pressure from outside sources mixed with an internal buildup of something, something, something, I don't know what. Sometimes I feel like I am out of focus, fading away, etc. The limbo of waiting rooms and lines at some imaginary bank. Then I imagine again this cloud of words forming over my head and filling the room until I suffocate. Songs stay in my head for awhile, then they're gone. "Soon" might be my favorite word. I don't know why this is relevant.
I had a dream where N. tried to climb up a giant tree to reach me, I had pizza. Instead she took a longer route involving hills and tunnels and so much unnatural geography taking up so much time and space that I gave up and walked away.
Some anonymous, erroneous comment about Scott Walker: maybe he wouldn't have so many bad dreams if he had worked a day in his life. I have never had a true nightmare that I recall.
There's a memory from when I was ten, eleven, twelve, somewhere. Some game, sticks and branches as weapons with neighborhood children. I hit a girl in the throat and she cries so much that I panic and run off to a friend's house. Mom catches up to us with the help of some rat who later would (or already had) run me over with an electric powered plastic jeep. At first I'm punished, then I cry so much that mom gives in and lets the same friend I was running to come over to play. In my mind's eye the girl looks just like you. Does this mean anything at all?