Better to Forget.

Ignored it, suppose,
for far too long,
so ungrateful
of their reprieve,

as I mistook
it as reality.
They gave me,

always give ample
time to convince
myself they were all
just a bad dream.

Down on my back
against a cold table,
straining to look at my toes.

One hand reaches across
my chest to grab
the other arm
midway between
shoulder and elbow.

This could be my trigger,
just remember:
this could be my lucid


What do you see
just passed
your feet, at the end
of the bed? Forget
it, just fucking

forget it, forever
and always,
it much better to:


Grip loosens,
the hand lets go.

Abandoned again.

Keep ignoring it…

Dreams of the Lost.

From what I have been able to recall from my dreams, the theme on the 15th and 16th involved pet animals, much has been the case with my dreams over the course of the last few months. Rather than forgetting I own them and forgetting to feed and water them, however, they were escaping and I was unable to track them down. More recently, the theme of “lost and not found” has carried on, though the manifestations have extended beyond animals.


I had two pets in a glass tank in what appears and feels like my parents living room. One of the animals died, and though I cannot recall what the first animal was the second was a chameleon, and I soon found that it had managed to escape its tank. As I hunted around the house for it, I at first thought I had squished it — I could even see its legs in the pile of stuff I had accidentally, evidently squished it in — but found that this was not the case. It was still alive and roaming free, hiding from me. 

I kept losing it in ways that seemed impossible. I remember catching it at one point and looking in the small tank where I had temporarily put it in shortly thereafter only to find that it was gone. Poof. He was a goddamn Houdini with cold blood. 

I was getting frustrated. And the dream ended without me ever having completed my mission of finding the damned thing.

The next time I slept (which is to say on the same day/evening), I had more dreams. A group and I had been in the house of someone else and the feeling I got is that our presence there was not in the least bit called for, not the least bit legal. They left, and only I remained — in one of the bedrooms at the end of the hall — when I heard the door open and heard (or in any case ascertained) that two people had entered the house.

Grabbing a stuffed dog nearby, I peek around the door frame of the room to see into the hallway, using the plush puppy to mimic the same behavior. It was done in a very childlike way, and I did it so as to not alarm them when they undoubtedly saw me. Evidently, it worked. It was a guy and a girl who came in, though I never saw the girl and didn’t recognize the guy he saw me peering around the corner, hardly glancing at the plush dog, looked me in the eyes and with a casual and even warm sense of recognition said to me, “Hey, Rick.” 

I had a vague sense of having seen the guy’s face before, but I’d be damned if I knew where — and the guy acts as if my presence is no surprise, no big deal. The only problem is that name he called me by. I am not Rick.

In another dream, I find that someone has a pair of leg braces like the ones I used to wear when I was young, and I was curious as to why they had them. Had they also had Perthes Disease? 

In yet another dream, I bump into two shift managers at work, though one was fired a few months back. I give one of them a belated birthday present for her daughter that I had been carrying around. She took it without saying anything, and I feared it meant nothing to her for she saw me as doing it out of guilt.


I was thinking about a pet rabbit of mine that had evidently escaped some time ago and hoped to find in the context of the dream as we were looking for something else.


I drive this small toy tank, presumably by remote control, so that it goes right under my bed. When it never comes back out the other side as it should have, I look under the bed — look everywhere multiple times — yet never find it. In another scene, I apparently drive the same toy tank into a pond, where it continues to plow along under water, but when I await its arrival on the side, it never comes. Again I embark on a fruitless search. 
It had been some time in the dream before I realized I wasn’t wearing my hat. My immediate fear, my instant sense of embarrassment arose from the realization that my bald spot had been exposed for a such great length of time — and all without my knowledge. I ran back to where I thought I had lost it. 
In general, dreams about getting lost, having lost something and searching for it are regarded as an expression of your sense of alienation or inadequacy. Losing a pet chameleon? Perhaps losing the ability to blend in to your surroundings. Losing a pet rabbit? I don’t know — perhaps losing softness, a sense of idealism. The toy tank having gone MIA not once, but twice in the same night in two different scenes? I’m clueless. Losing a hat? Maybe it suggests fears of losing your social role, social masque or persona — or having anxiety about what others might think regarding your hair loss…

Bad Example.

assured, our progeny
will look back upon
you and I through filters,

perceive us
through the translation
of myth, nonetheless

to themselves:
how foolish.

Truth mutilated,
expertly garbled…

fear not: they will get
the gist, change
their course,
hopefully succeed
at avoiding this.

See: even if we elect
our present ignorance
to get us
through in the longer
run, it,


win, it will serve
a purpose, provide

the Message,

barking it
loud and clear
to every ghost,

every living,
breathing, seething

from now to then:
whatever you do,

don’t do this,
no. No.

Don’t do this.

Oddity in a Strange, Sterile Room.

Against a dark,
four-dimensional fabric,
stars burn
bright, fast as light
can, yet do not shimmer.

Among them,
in a way.

We are dust
of dead stars
that went out not
with a whimper

but the loudest
(however silent)

I see them all staring
back at me from the past,
from just beyond

what must be the clearest
glass I have ever
laid my eyes upon.

Press the face
up against it, strive
to fully witness

this sacred, cosmic
moment. Up, down
back and fourth
I stretch to see yet

cannot find
any walls, horizon,
ceiling: all around me
there appears
to be sky.

And there is a hand
on my shoulder.

Long fingers caressing,
comforting, long
and deep exchange
of mental whispers…

coming back
to me.

Karmic Cul-De-Sac.

you have your whole
life mapped
out, you are on top

of it all, making a change,
bettering yourself
all as I’m

spinning, ever-nauseous
on my high-velocity
carousel, driving ’round
in my well-worn

circles, my karmic
cul-de-sac. Taking time
going nowhere
again, again
and yet again.

Cannot recover
it would seem
from this bad trip
I have been living,

growing bored
and all the more insane,
unable to find
a way out
of this madness.

I persist at doing
nothing and it’s killing me.
Such a pathetic, worn-out
kind of suicide,
don’t you think?

Cameltoe of the Soul.

No, that’s not extreme
enough. It is not simply
that something seems
wrong. No,

Nothing feels
right. Something
uncomfortable resides,
writhes inside, relentless,
so obvious to keen
third-eye onlookers,

in the form-fitting
ego, yoga pants
of the inner self,

the act of insides 
screaming out,
summoning attention 
like the soul’s camel toe.

Just another psychic amputee
dying, dying to pick
the phantom wedgie within,

beyond every pale,
rock every boat,
gone against every
goddamn grain:

no closer
to successfully
scratching, picking.