A Waking Dream

During the time of the night when I first start to dream, I was woken by a phone call. So, now I could not sleep, although a little of that dream still clung to my waking life.

I saw a vast hall, deep underground from far away — filled with many people. The roof was sheared off so that I could watch them from above. Or, maybe it was only from a mountain I saw this room. There was soft light from lanterns strung between the walls, and I seemed to be floating. Slowly as I left the scene my interest grew and my thoughts wandered to a less peaceful place.

All scientists are artists, although not good ones.
Also, all artists are scientists, although not good ones.

Composite Storia

Following my course down the hall into the stairwell, I pass down to the lower street level exit of the House. The door is broken, huge and made of ancient wood. I skip over the street with two long strides into an arched entrance of a stone, temple like palazzo to mail a package. Standing, waiting on the green marble floor for a clerk's attention the afternoon moves at a special pace.

The people's deepest desire is sleep

They walk in a waking dream,
through the dark, casting no shadows

Wandering the Streets, never finding
Night's sweet child Sleep.

Further On Place

This building is a tyrant, it structures every part of my life

This building has friends and is friendly with its neighbors,
here is a community

This building is my home, this house is where my family raised me.

A Finite Stage

This landscape pulls up close around me
A vast plain laid before me
Where I make gestures
And pace in circles


Spreading, radiating
On this expanse of asphalt,
As still as still waters,
Taking Darkness from the
objects on this surface.

Place #1

Spreading, radiating
On this expanse of asphalt,
As still as still waters,
Taking Darkness from the
objects on this surface.

Nightscape #1

The corner of the attic
Is dark in the same way
As a river valley wood at dusk

These secret hours of serene silence
Keenly aware of the deep night below

I treat my boredom exploring
On a stage of lamplight
The forgotten overgrown places,
The wild patches

I look at the street lamps
Burning aside the houses row on row

Glowing dimly under long arches
Of walnut arms along the road

The dark has drawn up close to me
As I keep silent and watch

Mode Moderne

River to Me

Not the clear quick stream
Not the lazy brown river
A glacial river in the spring
A torrent rushing sediment along

After the melt will return
As blue and steady
Calm and confident

For the Performative Poet

Whispered in an undertone,
A subtext to the words spoken in italics
in brackets he muttered — to himself

(The small details will sadly be missed
In the rush of oratory
But, the pithy punch-line
Shouted with gatling gun alliteration
In an indulgent lilt
Will be remembered)

"A peasantry grown fey and mystic, and unimpeachably artistic."

Cornered in the darkest crevice, teeth bared shining in the starlight.

The Night is Alive

The night is alive in the wild patches, in forgotten overgrown places
Keep silent, and the wild parts of the grid will remind you they're there,
Lithely under warm pools of lamplight they run,
Balanced on wires darting across the lane to warm nests in house walls,
Dexterous paws sorting through bins
House cats treating their boredom exploring the night
This city would turn to rubble in a short time if we were all to leave from it at once.

untitled, 2009

lost in a moment from dennis wheatley on Vimeo.

Empty Vessels

It feels as if my life has shifted into a plotless prolonged waking dream. Friends and family have morphed into exaggerated parodies of themselves. Their words have become cryptic; ciphers to a world I no longer understand. I feel ignorant of something I'm not sure I can comprehend.

Everything I don't know has become mystery to me, I can no longer trust my perception, I now look at the world unquestioning, accepting what I see as true.

In time I've become habituated and found ways to cope with my place in this world. I've begun to mimic those around me, I cling to every phrase I can memorize, every action I can imitate, I dance around chanting the slogans I know, gesturing passionately to passersby desperately hoping for any connection.

We speak the same language, but the words seem to signify nothing. The meanings I know seem to have been forgotten, outdated, or washed away.

So, I'll go down into a dark basement away from family and friends, to muttering about the ways that used to be. Nostalgic for meaning and mystery I'll seek to fill the empty vessels, to plant seed that grows plurality.

"the blogosphere"

I feel like this medium has a chance at being an honest and useful forum for people to exchange stories. When bloggers are not just complaining or ranting about inane topics, interesting things come out. Whether a tedious hour by hour account of your day or minute observations of every social action and idiosyncrasy, or a meandering narratives populated with characters taken directly from the author's own life the blogosphere is rich in imagination, or at least information and inspiration.
Naturally none of these things that are written remain our intellectual property and anyone serious about making a go of writing can't blog without the danger of the invading "google bots" or "coolhunters" making off with their thoughts. The argument could be made that there exists the same dangers in the physical world of writing as the digital, and that the path set before an aspiring amateur isn't easy whichever way. The access to an audience or to readers offered through blogs is unprecedented, and although great works of literature are unlikely to made here great writers could. In such a fertile and liberated environment passionate writers have an oppertunity to make a name for themselves, and like the dream of most every blogger to make a deal with a real life physical publisher and write a real life paper book.