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THIS ARTICLE:
Any Resemblance to persons living or dead is purely
paranoid.
I rarely reveal the name of  anyone who may or may not be my personal friend...
or enemy.

JULY  2013
 


Lucid Dreams in Search of a Poem
 




The Girl Next Door is Eternal
 


Queen Elizabeth I: Dreams iron out the troubles of the day.



Lucid Dreams in Search of a Poem


Against the perennial backdrop of nature and the cold heavens
I dream and search the secret things of mirth and flesh, or mind
and microbe, rarely finding the desert of metaphor I treasure as
lucidly and coherently as an archeologist seeking true mankind.

My hand done, weary books have taken me to the reaches from
inner bounds to outer madness and no such pleasure awaits me
whether inspired by mythic youth or fanciful aging, to assign a
deserving idea to this pursuit, though a restless odyssey persists.

                               

Forgive my god-speak delivery, the grief struck wisdom I use to
communicate. I stumble through folly and rubble to make sense
of the nerves and viral DNA we abuse to understand a species
so invasive here below we stand to end it before we even begin.

The book of human values is incomplete though it competes
with every cultural folio of transcendence ever compiled and
tries with blood force to wield power over all who will listen.
My hair listens, my toes prickle, but I tend to be open minded.

Thanks for the pause...

Dream 1

First bubble-light, Coka-Cola Christmas, dad just back from
the Pacific, a stranger in Santa’s clothing, I took all his hand
made presents out onto the December front plot and stomped
them into unrecognizable desecrations of his anxious love.

Dream 2

Elongated dark figures surround me, silent moving only as the
air moves or the murky light plays, my crib for a bed secure  
in its bars, still comfy for a five year old, but sissy in retrospect.
The gathered do not frighten me and feel I need them with me.  

Dream 3

The house I made with my hands and fingers joined, isometric
not the steeple index pointy version grandma taught me to pray
on, or the crayon multicolored one I often drew from memory,
nor the modern perspective one my father hammered into me;
but a mechanically contrived one, a conical roof, the one they
thought I would make a living from just as my father did, only
a child my age could only imply it be willful work of the devil.

Dream 4

The hospital window drawing in which I rendered every bldg.
drew comments of wonder from Dr. s and R. N. s, a proud dad
and anyone else stopping by my pediatric ward as I lay a pox 
riddled slum kid, surviving a multitude of filth from

the Casey Street project*

and having flashbacks of wolves jumping up and down,
popping the colored light bulbs along the boardwalk, my
homeward, evening route, older boys pointed out, provoking
every nervous nerve ending a five year old could handle. By
comparison a detailed rendering of downtown was a curative
experience, but inspiring dad to teach me all of his crafty art. 

Dream 5

Bamba in tropical Africa living on
chikwangue and sudsy palm
wine appeared to thrive less fearfully and stressed than I did in
my hometown with its alley gangs, predators and vicious dogs.
First grade sociology had its limitations and painted life rosier.
My mural painting on brown wrapping paper was to be my 1st
assignment in the art world, though my rough draft did not pass
the drafting supervisor, my father, exclaiming, “it’s all trees! …
Where’s Bamba, his people?” I pointed to microbial indications
of little eighth-inch stick figures at the ground line… “there.”  

not my photo but an example

Dream 6

Smearing blue paint on a terracotta vase, I told off JR, my
pedophile nemesis, that he could not make me do what he
so righteously wanted me to do. He offered me a ground
floor entry into his YMCA world of men. I totally refused.
A bloody nose and a gang beating later I still remained
stoic, determined to stand up for myself  and reminded him
my dad wouldn’t rest til his family went back to Arkansas.

Dream 7

Smiles of a different reasoning or similar smirks, began
to cross my face as I set off down my own way to wisdom;
The distant hope of becoming a paperboy loomed ahead,  
as horns and drums intruded, guitars flashing in the night
like a police road block amid the hoot of new years to come.

part II continued...


*The project I grew up in was an army veteran's camp converted
from an army barracks for returning soldiers from WWII who had
little or no means for housing or work, their resources down to bare
minimum. It was as close to a ghetto as I have ever experienced
and was part of the trauma everyone experienced after the war.
People living is these conditions were at their best and worst. We
are a reactive nation which tends to heal from wounds in ways that
make simple everyday solutions harder than political and spiritual
resolutions. It is not a grudge or blame I carry but a deep dark sadness, for which I have flashbacks and outbursts to this day and may never overcome the injuries to my family or the cruelty I suffered in the chaos of so many disrupted lives. Living there was both a curse and an opportunity, a window on the world but not one I would have chosen in which to raise a child. The social safety net is sometimes a gill net and a fish kill, but better than no net at all.
 


  
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