morning glory

donepiece

Dreams last night

--Apartment complex. I'm in my room when my dog is stolen by police-nurses. It is brought back without eyes. Same with my cat, they are whaling when a nextdoor neighbor informs me the building is changing. Bars start raising over my windows; the faux wood paneling is replaced by raised columns of red brick. I run out just before the transformation is complete and the buildings doors are shut a constricting wall of these bricks. From the outside it looks like a monstrous flower closing its petals.

--Machine gangster wife with husband in rectangular spa pool. Woman is a famous actress from Shikoku. Parts of her body are completely absent--legs, one arm, side of face--and are replaced with cybernetic auxiliaries. He sits tatted up on the other side of the pool. She sits up, flashing back to her beauty without these strange accouterments. Walking up to him she glares down he glares back, and his face silently plunges into the azure clear spa water as her machine arm drowns him.

--My son and I are at a hong-kong estuary park, where a column of water, 5 foot deep and light clear blue provides fun like a gigantic wave-pool. No visible sea life, but one wonders if there is some in there, hidden. Suddenly a tidal wave smashes through with a rumbling noise. We hide behind a coral mound as the wave crashes around us and brings with it a heavy tourist bar-boat, which tumbles over with all its panicked charge.

-- A shikoku estuary populated on each side by two rival gangs--one ethnically Japanese, the other Korean. The leader of the Japanese gang is animated and angrily demands satisfaction. The Korean succinctly apologizes and hands over a novelty set of Catholic prayer beads from off his own neck with a large ivory crucifix hanging from the bottom. The Japanese leader puts them around his neck--a Korean gang-member on the concrete staircase leading down to the estuary waters triggers the crucifix and it explodes blowing out the back of the Japanese gang-leader with a terrific thud.

--flying car, helped by blue jet engine engineer. (dream fragment)

--Japan-town somewhere in Oregon with city lights and market and real-estate and casinos (dream fragment, possibly a setting)

Ping Pong Fuck

We stood in the auditorium, my having just received oral sex from a black college student, and my wife just now standing up staggering like through darkness with a stout young slick-haired punk guy who zipped up an over-sized zipper on the front of a pair of black and neon green overalls. They had fucked behind a ping-pong table which was used in the past to entertain her children or alternately serve the needs of drunken men in her father-in-law's charge. Her hair was now a gaudy orange, the effect of attempting to dye black hair blonde in a slipshod manner. Had they enjoyed rebellious sweetness of their youthful, programmed movements? For me it's like wrenching an object, which I know is vapid and empty. The thought disgusted and enthralled me, like a massive curling wave of human waste crashing through my chest.

Kipple

Four panel sash window. Look out of it diagonally upwards, a dog is barking one level up out of a dark open window. I wake up speaking gibberish, drooling a cool electric madness of tiny beetle crawlies scattered on my pillow and forearm. Retreating back to the warm home. I read something about this recently. A soldier will always upon near-death, draw on the kipple of home life--empty snack bags, summer haircuts, ice-tea, barbecue, mother. There is a home for us there when death is near or when freight drives us mad--a warm blowing of sweet grass scented wind through cracked sash windows, flavored by radiance. The needle-points of manifold anxieties point us home, usually late afternoon on into evening--the day's work settled and forgotten the comfort of empty schedule leaves us simply alive and with dropsical bellies to ponder.

The dog is black and hanging over the ledge, my animal instincts pang me with fear of imminent attack, but crossbeams of these windows--metal wood and elevation make that fear short lived. In the mirror I wonder if this mechanism is of any great importance. This sophisticated analogue computer contained in my skull. Is my writing of any greater import than a dolphin slipping its body through water or a cricket unwinding a subtle byplay?

Driving though the darkness I observed the coiffure in my hair, pasted with indignity above my head like uncut fetlock. Will this do? Will someone laugh and ask me to perform some bawdy impression, or worse, to sing? Humor is a subjugating force in this manner. The courtesans of ancient Japan had so asked one another to 'be witty' on-command; accordingly it has always made me feel servile; one who lives in the service of others.

I must go now...with any luck, more later.

strange one.

squeezing foam through my hair I took time to make sure my sideburns were covered. My hair needed to be blond, my wife thought.

My father had just constructed a new bathroom within our old one, which was ornate and secure. The place was safer now, I suppose. Water ran from a collection of small drums out of a silver u shaped faucet. The table was made to look like an old paper-desk; such was the vogue.

Rubbing the smelly dye foam through my hair, towel wrapped around my shoulders like some bomb-survivor, I stepped down to my father who was watching a new action movie piped in over broadband onto our fixed computer.

The movie depicted blondie fighters sitting down to a meeting when suddenly a Mac truck smashed through the facade of their meet-place building and crushed their bodies under its wheels. The truck then backed up to smash the head of one quite surprised looking decapitated tyro.
One older blondie fighter who saw this horror from safe-distance shot a tackler rope into the back of the Mac truck, attached the line to a yacht toting trailer, hopped on the yacht and readied himself for battle.

"These new action movies are great", my dad said.

Brown Toad Incident

How much did this apartment cost, you think?
Probably around 1.5 mil.
Behind my drunk friends and their associates I could see the lights of Los Angeles twinkling through the smart apartment's windowpanes.Earlier today we had an unfortunate accident involving a roller coaster at one of the nearby amusement parks. Our black friend had tried to sabotage the trip by killing himself, somehow jettisoning is body from the coaster at a moment of high negative g. Thankfully he had landed more-or-less safely in a gigantic tar-pit, and had regretted his earlier decision--deciding not to finish the job yet in some lunatic manner.

These lights are quite beautiful. My friend was playing an arcade game the owner of the apartment had resting near the exit to the scenic deck and patio. In the game he was flying some kind of harrier jet, shooting and circle-strafing a stationary target.

Suddenly metal grating and steel doors shut all the windows and porticoes. We were stuck here. The apartment owner returned with a large aquamarine cage. The water inside the cage was dark and clouded ruddy brown. He crashed the cage on the floor and 6 or seven brown toads jumped on one of my friends and promptly tore his face off and started opening his thorax and underbelly to chew on the meat there. I ran into the kitchen to grab a knife, couldn't find one--but found a bag of bread which had a skull and cross-bones sticker attached to it. I threw a slice of this bread at one of the approaching toads and it ate it. The toad suddenly crouched, the way toads usually do, its cheeks cascading up and down; then it just froze, its breathing stopped and it was like a little toad statue. I threw slices of the bread just outside the kitchen door into the great room where I could hear hops coming after me. I told my friend and girlfriend to escape out the laundry hatch behind me. As they did so my friend let out a yelp. I looked back and his arm was deep into the gaping mouth of a large brown toad. Could this be the mother? Trying to move away my friend escaped minus his forearm, which the mother toad kept. I threw this mother toad the rest of the bread, as I undid my belt and tied off my friend's arm to prevent huge blood-loss. Behind the new brown toad mother statue, was a strange cave tunnel; not a laundry chute. The tunnel appeared to have multiple veins as we all crawled through, parallel-laterally we heard ruckus in the kitchen behind us. Was it the toads or the owner? As we approached the caves exit I saw a row of toads to my left. The sides of their body made for the texture of the cave-wall. Were the petrified or simply hibernating?

As I got up from my forced crouching position and ran out the exit of the tunnel, the owner stabbed me in the chest with a knife. Wrenching the knife from my bleeding chest I threw it directly into his eye.

As I lay dying, I dreamed of an airport with a nice Mexican bar. The drinks are half off today. What a nice place to get drunk and forget your flight!

Headless old man

There's nothing I can say. A headless body lay down on the roof of another building, a trip-wire sends its head rolling down a pair of copper beams; leads it down spinning rapidly. Its hair is long and white. The skin is white and dry-looking.




Blue water in the white ice as Peter and Satomi and I sail though south american beach areas.

What is it with Parking Garages?

So much of the modern world consists of driving cars and running across their related paraphernalia. I ran to the top of the parking garage. The fog was thick below the apex, but the top level of the garage peaked out above it. It was as if the top of this garage was adrift in a grayish white sea of cloud. I jumped down using a grappling hook, went into the arcade and found the door. The woman on the other side said "try your best to avoid this!" and jabbed at me with a syringe. She was beautiful. I was deft but stuck with the needle nevertheless.

Blue

Leaning against a dome carved rock a French veteran stared ahead with one eye at a bright red pole that shined back at him between the throngs of people walking through the memorial's pathways. His upper lip was a mound that curled over the usual dip, like an orange rind, exposing a nicely arranged row of white teeth. The nose was absent, the crater suspending the rind, and a custom eye-patch supported itself upon the lip's ridge with a small girder, a bird's foot perched on a ball. His navy cap read "Bordien", and although an incision's rivet bit into his eye's puncta he stared with wise intensity through the commotion; simply waiting for the initiation of some act which would be the consillatory or provocative end to his ownership of the scene before him. He stood grotesque and magnificent in a shabby oil-stained tweed jacket, the gravitational effect of wearing the Médaille militaire and Croix de guerre straightening out the patch over his left breast. If one stood directly before him he appeared like the keystone in a relief, a liminal welcomer to to the somber tended parade grounds and the dark unparallel strokes of the forest beyond. Seemingly preoccupied with his role as gatekeeper, the soldier cocked his head slightly when from behind the red pole he spotted the darkly tanned and mud spattered face of a vagrant. Immediately the two were entirely engaged with one another. The soldier looked over the vagrants face for signs of horror or disgust, either of which would satisfy his strange hunger. The vagrant upon studying the veteran's face stared back blankly with an expectant aire which circumscribed his métier. As the vagrant approached the veteran was struck by the wild stormy-wave pattern of hair, and an impasto of filth which striped the forehead's brow-lines and nose; this face was a rough churning sea. Pidgeon cooing relieved the two of their silent duel, and the connection was broke.
Below the pidgeons the vagrant settled amidst a pile of trash opposite a relief station. These streets, the avenues bustling with a happy city's retinue once lay shattered. Planks of wood, doorframes, tapering piles of mortor littered with clock springs and brick rubble; these erstwhile estaminets, cathedrals and brownstones were the clarion call of the trash in a veteran's mind. In a vagrants mind they were a boon, a source to sustain lifes condition, such as it was.

"To feel embittered by it would be like blowing on cigarette ash", someone said from the shadow of a pin-stand a little down the avenue. All ages were here, and life was seen from many angles as the defunct and young held and assayed one another in capricious spells of regard. The carnivalesque impression was made a project by young boys standing grey and infantesimal beside gleaming convoys of cavarly come home from the Verdun. To a child's untrained eye, this terror combined with the streaming tears of wives and fathers equated roughly to a vision of manhood. But there were things missing as well. Where were the clean argent bayonets, the bicorns, and triumphant faces? After all, hadn't the War been won?
Had the children asked him, had they enough courage to ask him the only question of great import, the one both his presence and his chasseur comrades' collective absence incited in young minds, he would have replied simply: "No. War is cold", and let that fester. The veteran had heard from someone that the reason why murder was immoral was because it robbed a person of his or her future. Watching these young children, he was pained by the innefectual nature of his observation-- his field of vision such that focus was easier, the periphory less significant, but this clarity of tunnel vision only increased a sense of an overarching lameness and a surging calamity. Here in the spotlight was the reverent glaring of a girl of six regarding the roundly handsome mustachioed, face of a radiating young Dragoon patrol officer, having never seen combat himself in Armiens-- a fate to which he saw assigned the men who marched in his wake: pasty white, both eyes forward, dead, capped in fetching bearskin. Later, a young boy and his obvious demimonde mother's turn at concocting demigods to the tune of forty young cavalrymen gliding atop black bicycles--toys on review! In sometimes dizzying pangs, the eyes of others and the one he had left to witness them confirmed that his physical appearance couldn't show the depth of his wounds, it needed extracting from him. But why be serious? The War was over and the solution to the riddle presented by the veteran's appearance was thus paradoxically barred to children, the only recipient for whom his scars were designed.
The forest sighed through the crowd and the veteran flipped his collar, burying his head into his chest, while keeping his eye on the red of the pole. The world expanded, like drapery then cascaded back down as the gale passed.