from Iteration Nets


6.02

In the beginning heat of summer I dream a recurring February dream. And in that dream the light of the world goes out. Stunned by the pull of stars it exudes plasma stabilized in vast quarries of marigold then goes dark as we come to earth's rescue, make a little sun and drop it, there, in the garden blooming out sunset in the image of the bomb I found, age 7, sprawled with the National Geographic on the tiled Californian floor, turnip, flock and gull. And then dream women weep miasma cradled with inner flowers or foils for the moonlight while a voice proclaims that this state is just and it is so as I dim, cast worries, shove air and hold. And then dream women begin letter after letter in an attempt to describe this vision of the sidewalk cracked concentric and walking there, slipping down, nobody looks. Urns tip flooded of it and I have to doubt my waking where the dream has gone to memory called up, truth be told, in faces half recognized. From these the women are made, delight's error of familiarity grown stout with the dedication of dreamers, no object in the center, we are flown into the midst of traffic, the letters long and misleading. A swaying wit deludes the plight

and owns doubt. In trying to stay away from the usual image the mind will hit, obtrude, move down around acres calling up into wind and small houses, mind traveling too fast, eyes too tired, world world. And in the recurrence we become weak into the gut of the volcano blast, a stabled cry, no traction, no binding idea to the fight of it as when last wearied love marries fold, uttering out memory on the hill or bluff above the sand where my cousin wed in a white dress spotted with red flowers. In the dream the white dress spots with blood and there is no notice of voice though surely there is screaming under weather as our atomic sun blooms out the hill and inner flowers and I am spent in irradiation or spent into the image disseminated over the net and repeated in televisions framed by windows. And I try to wake up, mock the lull gone into traffic now and I wait for a justification, an arming event to take me out of the stunned circuitry as my fatal eyes tin, crash wary. A living within the city of manifold tunes, quipped talk bends this century, lungs full and waiting for exhaustion we fight, groan loud and fall to the ground unnoticed as mist intrudes

upon the cold seeping up from the sidewalk or tile floor, the refusal to rise is the refusal to wake a way of thinking amidst our hemispheric faults as traffic or the voices of television continue and long beautiful sentences such as I have not read before hum in my brain. There is a component of damage to them, as in arms tired of carrying, as in silk covering and strained and we were wings and up and flying through tall buildings. The day went and I gleamed open. This is a dream I dream of aluminum siding and a way to begin into the forest of ruined fields and the knowledge of our part in their ruin. Reservoir eyes. Dreams, lips, and the night goes. Sometimes it is like this softening on the inside and waiting to out at stiff edges, the mind functioning away at a level of caress and breathing and a will to run and finding myself running then, as if my body were not a factor. Sometimes it is like this, love: shrinking and pissed the dream continues in hours hemmed in as if eyes were welded to fears and the future arrives merely to default the play. Rent, I stand at the doorway of rubble and glass, eye-reamed and waking in fright to god in the trees or someone else singing, a pen preserves our tried glean. And I wake to the true sun missed, the rustle, then, in the trees not god or a bird but I wake to throw open the window, to seek what is hidden in the trees


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