Incomplete Surrender

Sometimes odd reactions occur.

Most of the time I can tell the difference though,

Between the real and the brought upon.

However,

Occasionally

A blurring will occur

Transporting the flesh

To

Some mystically warped dream landscape

And despite the fantastical whimsies within,

The mind continues to play tricks upon

The warbling words playing soundtrack to the world

Once in a while the scenery is painted like nothing seen before.  Here, truth falls victim to perception.  The mind wants to feel and thusly feels.  The vividly sculpted canvasing created, spread naked, for the larger-than-life states of vibrancy deluged upon— the mixtures of grey clouds and colorful mountain ranges merge, forming some abstraction you need to touch. And touch you must.

One of the most common situations is composed, as a story would be by a competent fantasy illustrator.

The sword is firmly placed within my hands.  The blade gleams the heaven’s and the crested jewels upon the hilt glimmer when falsities near

Often we have sidekicks.  The mind typically steals these from real life of what was in view just the night before.  Tonight I am on a quest, searching for the persnickety populous; it’s cat-scratched fever, and hordes of grotesque curs—armadas of a drone that drowned to mewl. 

An unlikely cast of characters, each, accompanies me bearing individually meted responsibilities.  Tonight’s journey shows Salacious Crumb to be my man-at-arms.  He barely reaches the apex of my ankle, yet carries a full-sword the size of a mountain goat.  Babe follows closely behind, squealing the songs it knows and whines about the one’s it refuses to learn.  Yet it does it’s job fairly well, after-all, who wouldn’t get a kick out of singing pig, lost and looking for it’s way home, only to find a world without acreage to spare.  Yes, a very good jester indeed.  Then we have the Schmoos, a whole family of blobby beasts, they trail behind and hop about, making sure nobody sneaks up from behind. Finally, to round things out, there is my trusty steed, a dear, dear relative of Mr. Ed, who, to this day, when not out on adventure, shops himself a direct descendant, and thusly, fair or not, collects exorbitant stud fees, for all the 80’s steeplechase fanatics who always wished their nag would speak to them.

OH. PLEASE!!! JUST GET ON WITH THE THING.  worst seven-fifty ever spent...

“Where did that voice-over come from. and for that matter, how RUDE”

Too often than not, the stories fail to complete.

And, for some reason or another, something I can only pass off as a curse of modern medicine, they never continue on as we perhaps would like…

After the next pills take their place a newer cast bedazzles with their spell, and the cyclicality renews again.

Stiletto Deep

listen to ‘Stiletto Deep’ on Audioboo

I seem to be stiletto deep

Can’t focus, looking through

A sleep that won’t commit

Fully to functions outside

It’s fevered dormancy

Fountains frustrate the truth

Sickling out the weakest,

Pillaging through a haze

That won’t forget, that

Forgiveness must be learned,

A condition often a condition

Of itself

I seem to be stiletto deep

Can’t observe, won’t stay

Still, through a veil of damask

Lines, purporting a truism

One can never find, lost, completely lost,

Wholly, completely wholly.

And I wonder what’s the best I’m able to

And I wonder what that would cost

What She Deemed as Independence

Fretting the skylark vignette, thinking

was it troublesome, I forget?

fragile, damaged—subterfuge

inserted through—detachers landing pads

abruptly fluttersome, this dark dove

of scarcity…crumbs…and ain’t that so so so so

Sweating the tough clues, brick

upon brick, soft at the mortar-side—

flashing incoherence, representable

detonation—of scoffed genuflections—

easily mutable are distractions—but—case

in pointed point presents the presences of pretension—sweeping through—a haunting dark—reefs broken by—all the everlasting—

freak flags glowing—bezerk—ghastly—cruel—but who knows the pick to blame?  and ain’t that so so so so

I’ve dreamt the same dream for decades now,

there I sat mountain high, observing as

colossal tides collapse, collide—into the low

craggy tips, barely breathing—there—above an ocean’s rising floor—draped amongst the plankton skirts and corral tees— the red, the blues—and there, I realize, I’m more own worst anemone.

 shine shine shine though, sparkly shine—the party beats still—expectations don’t surrender—must try, must try—then, there—without trying—a memory—how beautiful the ceiling looked—cloud covering fog below, the light shards pierce of select wave—It was beyond peaceful, beyond any Eden I could ever know—ecstasy until….”damn pills said I’d sleep through the night”

…and attrition reminds me—everything I had purposely ignored— while sleeping under stardust, coveting whatever the splashing leaves behind—

however –

neurons remembered the firing pin—and…and, the words were still there—as if they had never left—intact—survived—still remained—exactly where last placed—way back when—on that day—the one you called your independence— as you stood tall upon that reef, watching the schools swim so so so    

Of, and Pertaining to, the art of Sleep

Clotted signals from blisters deep

Emote sparks upon listless tongues

         The time of sparrows has come to pass

                  In hibernation, like the pharaoh,

                           The clock now sleeps

Tropical endorsements overheard

         Amidst somniloquy’s fragmented reverie

        

         Through distant visions clear here-now

                  Sedentary whispers submit the frame

                           To the turns of Solstitial dream

Of, and pertaining to, thoughts accrued

         During slumber’s folly evermore

A Winter's Night to Be?

                        I.

It’s been seasonally unseasonal

With slight refrigeration and but

A sprinkling of salt, this winter’s

Been a pleasant disaster thus far.

It’s been about an hour and fifteen

Moments now, since the monotone

And balding mainstay with the same

Black suit and black bowtie (which is

The only distraction the viewers are allotted

In order to cautiously avert one’s gaze from the

This man’s blind-emitting reflective Temple-born overt glare.)

He instructed us to batten down the hatches

For the midnight hours will deliver, with a fair

Amount of certainty, much more than the typical

Thirty-five percent, super-bowl-like guesswork,

That’s oft perceived as Elite

Amongst the castes & fan-boys, in the world

Of meteorological prognosticating. 

                 

                            II.

Forty-five miles each and every hour of the overnight,

Will terrorize the mountains first, move into the plains

Then swim about the lake, holding still, circling, just long

Enough for the temperatures to spike below, from forty-one’s to

Twenty-two’s, depreciation, if included in a piece referencing

Ages, might spark some spiked memories of their own, at which point the lady of the lake effects will show her force, that despite the spattering underachieving mother our nature has proven this winter thus to be, the lady shan’t be so kind this stormy first month night.

The howling will begin, like banshees in search of souls to tease, and then the clacked-clacking of the skeletal shells of trees, rocking, swaying keenly in the dark, where a barely visible half-cloud covered moon, illuminates the long raspy branch-like fingers as it scrapes against the uninsured side panels of Home.   

Soon the sound will be reduced to the silence only heard in sleep—

Those temperate delusions we dream to ourselves, where pleasant anecdotes and grandiose scenic enshrinements emboss the frontal portions of our yet to exit REM state mind. 

           

                             III.

Gently snuggled under:

A.      Faux Silk sheets, Gold

B.      Faux Chamois ½ blanket- Blue & Gold

C.      Cotton blanket, full, Red, White & Blue

D.      Original Comforter couldn’t bear to part- Tan and White(ish)

E.      New Comforter, plush, Gold

Head nestled amongst:  3 pillows, and a monster green pillow thing, mainly meant for decoration, yet used on occasion, when I don’t want to wake the dogs from rest, yet need a brief respite from the daily.

Unprepared I close my eyes.  Yes, I watched the news, I just said I did, detailed it quite so-so if I don’t say so myself, but it’s been mild, it’s been calm, and horizontal snowfall hasn’t been seen in years, a feat that’s rare, even here.  So I close my eyes, unprepared for the morning groans over snow, where still in pajamas, the eyes watch the snow-globe outside, as if some wizard is constantly flipping us bottoms up and renewing the invigorated non-stop snowfall drifts.

Luckily, I have an out.  All I have is an appointment.  I can cancel if I must.  For four letter’s white, look much prettier, when behind the frosted pane inside.

And the eyes roll underneath now enveloped lids.  The chest rises and falls as breathing beings often should.  The only occupation of light is a small blue dot flashing.  The only remnant of sound is the sound of slap-chop or one of its kin.  As it does appear I fell into the evening hibernation a bit prior to pushing power on the satellite receiver, television, all-in-one control, remote button. 

And at some point, my hand must have slid, as it now lays draped over the side of bed, fingers must have given way, as the carpet now holds the remote in its overnight vacation place, away from it’s controlling friends, by the nightstand, next to the window and the comfy leather viewing chair. 

                                           IV.

But none of this I can see for myself, it’s a picture, as seen from the guardian angel that hovers above me during dream.  And I must say, I cannot complain, he’s done a swell job for the most part, always paying attention to each dream dreamt and then some more.  Yet, I do believe, knowing him the way I think I do, he most likely covers his eyes during those certain types of dreams… only lifting away a finger or two, for a very brief pecking of time.  Curious.  Interested, but coy, and red, regarding the ruffling of his wings, and the slight increase of light, shining in unexpected rhymes from the halo above his head.

         Winter.  Outside the pane, approaches tonight.

Or so the forecaster guessed, and, I do so guess as well, that tonight, I do believe, that there’s about a fifty-three point nine percent chance that I believe his prediction will come true this night.  But all will be fine.  All will be …

But a confession I must make.  I cheated.  My big toe always gives the chill away, hours before the temperature drops.  And it doesn’t matter how warm and cozy the socks are worn to feet.  When it’s cold, I’m all too well aware of the numbness in my foots frozen thumb. 

                                         V.

         Sleep tight dear dreamers

         Dream soft dear sleepers

         Stay warm.  Stay nestled—

Cozy in your beds, where,

         If you can’t fall tenderly on

Your own, whisper internally,

A sweet, sweet song, but only after

         Praying your prayerful words

In the darkness of between the flickering light,

And if possible, if you can, if you’re not alone this winter’s eve…then kiss your partner on their cheek

                           Cover them tight, and bless them peace in dream

And… let each other’s body glow, keeping each the other’s full frame warm…on this predicted to be, awfully chilling winter’s sleep…

Oh, I don’t care too much for…Oh, Let it snow, let it flow, Oh I don’t care too much for snow, but oh…

With love

In touch or

In dream

You won’t be cold inside or out

And then…

It won’t matter what middle-aged balding, bow-tie wearing man with a monotonous voice says about the cold, cold weather he predicts to come, on this cold, cold winter’s eve, on this cold, snowy cold, winter’s night to be.