Overlooked by one who loved me
Discounted
Because the marrow's gone.
Nightmare
Nightmare January 29, 2003
The nurse opened the door for me into the dark room. It was bright outside, but the light from the hallway was blunted fiercely by the inner darkness. I stepped into the room, unquestioning, and it was shut quietly behind me, manufacturing a quiet breeze against the nape of my neck.
In the dark, my shoes glowed, and my feet within them moved of their own accord. They led me to an aluminum folding chair. I sat down, and my left elbow smacked against the corner of the room. My shoes faded just as the front wall of the room was illuminated. The entire wall was covered by a white projector screen. The light allowed me to see that others were in the room with me. Clustered at the other side of the room, far away, were all the women I had been involved with in my life. They stared as one at the screen, feeding me only with their profiles. They were silent.
The screen flickered, and although I could see no projector, a slide came on. My heart jumped. It was me when I was six years old. I was small, with long, curly hair. A long-fingered hand held my arm. My mother’s. Another calloused hand rested on my shoulder, dwarfing me. My father’s. I was lying on a gurney and I looked terrified. Four brutish hands gripped the rails of my gurney.
My six-year old voice emerged from the still picture, freezing me. “Nooooo, nooooo,” it screamed.
The slide changed and I involuntarily jerked backward. My child-image was encased in two barbed platforms, stomach down, facing away from me. In an operation room. The image was three-dimensional, and my feet poked out into the dark viewing room. They spasmed. The four mean hands that had been holding the rails now all held sharp tools, which pressed into an unseen wound in my back. The picture moved crudely, hands stabbing, my body twitching in pain. My young voice continued to scream while the image unmercifully switched to a close-up of what the hands were doing to my back.
My spinal cord was open and four scalpels poked and jerked at the jell-like discs of my vertebrae. Amid my soft shrieks, I heard the doctors’ shadowy laughter. The image changed from the wound to me lying down to the tortured wound again. Back and forth first slowly, then the change quickened into a flash that bathed the viewing room in a wild light.
The pain became mine. I felt their cruel investigations chewing at my lower back and I bucked sideways, knocking over the chair and falling on the floor. I opened my mouth to scream and it emerged not as an adult’s, but the weary, horrified lament of a six-year old.
“Noooo, Noooo.” It said.
The screen blackened, and the agony left me. I sat up, disoriented, and another image arrived. I gasped. It was me, eight years old, staring directly at me. I don’t know how I recognized myself. The child’s hair was long, black, dirty and straight. His eyes were pinched, and underlined by thick stripes of coal exhaustion. He was starved, skin between his ribs like flesh runnels. Grotesque, ancient scars swallowed his entire upper body. He sat down, shoulders slumped. His attention on me was frozen, permanent.
Something moved at the four corners of the screen. Points emerging first, blades following, handles, then the wicked, gripping hands. Syrup’s progress, lazy but inevitable, coming for more.
I glanced to the right and noticed the women were staring at me. They opened their mouths in unison:
“So that’s why,” they said. “That’s why.”
The nurse opened the door for me into the dark room. It was bright outside, but the light from the hallway was blunted fiercely by the inner darkness. I stepped into the room, unquestioning, and it was shut quietly behind me, manufacturing a quiet breeze against the nape of my neck.
In the dark, my shoes glowed, and my feet within them moved of their own accord. They led me to an aluminum folding chair. I sat down, and my left elbow smacked against the corner of the room. My shoes faded just as the front wall of the room was illuminated. The entire wall was covered by a white projector screen. The light allowed me to see that others were in the room with me. Clustered at the other side of the room, far away, were all the women I had been involved with in my life. They stared as one at the screen, feeding me only with their profiles. They were silent.
The screen flickered, and although I could see no projector, a slide came on. My heart jumped. It was me when I was six years old. I was small, with long, curly hair. A long-fingered hand held my arm. My mother’s. Another calloused hand rested on my shoulder, dwarfing me. My father’s. I was lying on a gurney and I looked terrified. Four brutish hands gripped the rails of my gurney.
My six-year old voice emerged from the still picture, freezing me. “Nooooo, nooooo,” it screamed.
The slide changed and I involuntarily jerked backward. My child-image was encased in two barbed platforms, stomach down, facing away from me. In an operation room. The image was three-dimensional, and my feet poked out into the dark viewing room. They spasmed. The four mean hands that had been holding the rails now all held sharp tools, which pressed into an unseen wound in my back. The picture moved crudely, hands stabbing, my body twitching in pain. My young voice continued to scream while the image unmercifully switched to a close-up of what the hands were doing to my back.
My spinal cord was open and four scalpels poked and jerked at the jell-like discs of my vertebrae. Amid my soft shrieks, I heard the doctors’ shadowy laughter. The image changed from the wound to me lying down to the tortured wound again. Back and forth first slowly, then the change quickened into a flash that bathed the viewing room in a wild light.
The pain became mine. I felt their cruel investigations chewing at my lower back and I bucked sideways, knocking over the chair and falling on the floor. I opened my mouth to scream and it emerged not as an adult’s, but the weary, horrified lament of a six-year old.
“Noooo, Noooo.” It said.
The screen blackened, and the agony left me. I sat up, disoriented, and another image arrived. I gasped. It was me, eight years old, staring directly at me. I don’t know how I recognized myself. The child’s hair was long, black, dirty and straight. His eyes were pinched, and underlined by thick stripes of coal exhaustion. He was starved, skin between his ribs like flesh runnels. Grotesque, ancient scars swallowed his entire upper body. He sat down, shoulders slumped. His attention on me was frozen, permanent.
Something moved at the four corners of the screen. Points emerging first, blades following, handles, then the wicked, gripping hands. Syrup’s progress, lazy but inevitable, coming for more.
I glanced to the right and noticed the women were staring at me. They opened their mouths in unison:
“So that’s why,” they said. “That’s why.”
Dream: Uninvited Refrigerator Cleaner
I woke up early this morning to the whining sounds of a baby crying. I opened my eyes and noticed commotion in the kitchen. The pretty neighbor who lives above me stood in the doorway to my bedroom, carrying a sack of what appeared to be black feed. She spilled a little bit on the floor in front of my bookshelf, then came to my bedside. One of my eyes was still glued shut by sleep, but I noticed she was dressed slick, pressed blouse and business skirt. She gave me a dazzling smile and said, “Remember that Francis account I was talking about once last month?”
And I was thinking, WTF? How did she get into my apartment? What the hell is she talking about as if I would know? But, the girl was very pretty. So I nodded, sitting up in bed. “Well,” she continued. “The deal went through, and now I can do anything I want. Come look.” I got out of bed and followed her into my livingroom. A well groomed dog sat on my reading chair, making that whining sound. My kitchen was brilliantly clean. My neighbor said, “Because you’re so nice, and never complain to the man about my baby crying, I decided to come down and clean out your refrigerator.” She made a sour face. “It was disgusting.” I opened the fridge and noticed it was unusually clean, but she had somehow switched the freezer section to the bottom. Also, the entire appliance was filled with individual bottles of Corona in wet paper bags. I shut the fridge. “I was wondering,” she said. “If you could watch my baby while I go to Citibank.” I turned to the chair and the dog had transformed into a chubby baby that looked like my nephew. She grabbed him and put him in my arms. “For how long?” I asked. “I’ll be gone for a few minutes.” Grabbing her purse, she stepped outside and got into her car, which had “EUROPE OR BUST” painted on the back.
The baby cried.
Dream Over.
And I was thinking, WTF? How did she get into my apartment? What the hell is she talking about as if I would know? But, the girl was very pretty. So I nodded, sitting up in bed. “Well,” she continued. “The deal went through, and now I can do anything I want. Come look.” I got out of bed and followed her into my livingroom. A well groomed dog sat on my reading chair, making that whining sound. My kitchen was brilliantly clean. My neighbor said, “Because you’re so nice, and never complain to the man about my baby crying, I decided to come down and clean out your refrigerator.” She made a sour face. “It was disgusting.” I opened the fridge and noticed it was unusually clean, but she had somehow switched the freezer section to the bottom. Also, the entire appliance was filled with individual bottles of Corona in wet paper bags. I shut the fridge. “I was wondering,” she said. “If you could watch my baby while I go to Citibank.” I turned to the chair and the dog had transformed into a chubby baby that looked like my nephew. She grabbed him and put him in my arms. “For how long?” I asked. “I’ll be gone for a few minutes.” Grabbing her purse, she stepped outside and got into her car, which had “EUROPE OR BUST” painted on the back.
The baby cried.
Dream Over.
Limerick
There was a young lass from Manchester
She’d lift her skirts if ye asked her
For a penny or two
Her skivvies off too
And soon she’s in her second trimester
Nonsense.
They were captains at war, listening to nothing but screams. Majordomo, majordomo! Each in a floatboat made of rubberfoam and painted with the blood of the favorite children in symbols understood only by those dead for a thousand years. Between them a mountain of salt water, obscuring their view of each other, raised up by a hesitant leviathan, unsure of itself, frozen by hunger, self-rebuke and indecision. All the soldiers were dead, but because war was their only recognizable business, each was recycled a hundred times to try out new strategies of murder devised by majordomo, majordomo. All the gold was used up, all the precious rocks and fat from the ground, but the captains whispered into the air new laws to ensure that murder was its own end. And so this bubble drifted away from the heart of God and scraped against the wall of the universe until it finally slipped through. To a cavern unbeknownst to language.
Broken Stone
Uncover the broken stone. Take not a basket of fruit to your enemies. Deceit drips most lively from a peach. They will tell you to look away from the broken stone. They will tell you to enjoy the juice of the peach with closed eyes. We are peach vampires and sunshine has lost its patience. The juice will run dry, and with vision shut, you will uncover a broken stone.
Marchdream.
3-11-08
Dream: Stowaways in the sky force us to have an annoyingly extensive family reunion in a department store on a boat. Part 1.
Although I stood on the broad, cobalt steps of a Library, unwavering bastion of knowledge, the world listed and I listed with it. The tired pits under my eyes were deep and scraping the hollows of my neck. O, give me sleep! Give me sustenance! Give me equilibrium! Give me self-forgiveness!
Aside from the colored steps of the Library, the rest of my surroundings were bleached white. A round, black car came around the corner. The driver was an old friend of my brother's, a very intelligent stoner. Without stopping his vehicle, he stuck his hay-colored head out the window and shouted, "There is no cavern more wide, as filled with horrifying time than sobriety."
Before he turned the other corner, he said, "I will have been around this block a million times."
The world shifted, throwing me like a wooden doll to the right, past the corner of the Library where I smashed against the great, white wall that surrounded the road. I rose on vertiginous legs in a vapid corner. Far along the road, beyond buildings with scraped-away faces, opened automated doors. Laughter emerged from the doors, laughter sharing the notes of my own hidden joy, laughter of my family. At the crest of that hilarity walked a nun. Her black skirt moved briskly with her pace. She approached me, her eyes blazing with alarm. I moved like a struggling drunk, dancing to a tune nobody else could hear. I held up my hand to stop her advance. Without opening my mouth, I said, I don't plan to die. I only want to sleep.
She stopped. I collapsed in the corner.
Dream: Stowaways in the sky force us to have an annoyingly extensive family reunion in a department store on a boat. Part 1.
Although I stood on the broad, cobalt steps of a Library, unwavering bastion of knowledge, the world listed and I listed with it. The tired pits under my eyes were deep and scraping the hollows of my neck. O, give me sleep! Give me sustenance! Give me equilibrium! Give me self-forgiveness!
Aside from the colored steps of the Library, the rest of my surroundings were bleached white. A round, black car came around the corner. The driver was an old friend of my brother's, a very intelligent stoner. Without stopping his vehicle, he stuck his hay-colored head out the window and shouted, "There is no cavern more wide, as filled with horrifying time than sobriety."
Before he turned the other corner, he said, "I will have been around this block a million times."
The world shifted, throwing me like a wooden doll to the right, past the corner of the Library where I smashed against the great, white wall that surrounded the road. I rose on vertiginous legs in a vapid corner. Far along the road, beyond buildings with scraped-away faces, opened automated doors. Laughter emerged from the doors, laughter sharing the notes of my own hidden joy, laughter of my family. At the crest of that hilarity walked a nun. Her black skirt moved briskly with her pace. She approached me, her eyes blazing with alarm. I moved like a struggling drunk, dancing to a tune nobody else could hear. I held up my hand to stop her advance. Without opening my mouth, I said, I don't plan to die. I only want to sleep.
She stopped. I collapsed in the corner.
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