I had dreams, yawning wide open, of old gods that sat heavy upon the world, great engines that hummed with the om of life and death, ominous hulks whose ancient bodies obscured the horizon. They sprawled eternally like sphinx, frozen in the sand of a timeless earth, on treacherously lazy paws, morose landscapes in and of themselves, seething with atomic intelligence.
Followed angels behind bars into the secret shadows of my mind's alleys, realistic and painful sweet moments with angels reaching realistic and painful sweet conclusions. The sun burned blonde behind my eyelids, I drank a thick nostalgia, golden sand wet with sweat.
I had ponderous, crawling epic dreams of racism and social inequality, unexpected chilling visions of a great tree, rotten in trunk and leaf, rotten roots deep in rotten soil, and I had difficulty leaving the scene without feeling like a rapist.
I watched reality twist itself into a dervish, vibrate into a mirage suspended on the fragile shining spiderweb of a single song.
I saw a giant ruddy beast made of mud and crumbling masonry, with gasping slot machine mouths, and the jackpot vomited torrents of rusty water and mud dotted with muddy human bodies, the living and the dead, and even the to-be-born. I knew then as I know now that this was nothing to fear, lest we admit that we've been living in that same fear our entire lives. I knew then as I know now that the rivers of blood and mud and rust run freely with those of Spring and sweat and wine and light, and that when all these nebular rivers freely intermingle upon their absolution in the final ocean, light will shine through to its deepest depths, and it will remain clear as virgin water untouched by the sin of time.
Big ol' eyeballs stretch thin lids. A day, a night, a week, a month, a night spent in fog, stumbling along the surface of the autumn moon, a cosmonaut among cowboys. I'm finding less things to believe in the eyes of fellow man, and more things to believe in nighttime and the magical realism of lunar-manic road trips, scuttling along the planet's cold surface like a bent crab. There's some primal vigor rendered superficially inert, kinetic to potential, by the melancholy weather and wistful indiscretions. I feel I could walk a thousand miles through numbing, freezing rain and be carried forth by the warmth that I carry behind my eyes.
Words lose their meaning. I have no faith in them, but in the shapes behind them, infinite fractal silhouettes, glowing neon silhouettes against ghost sky.
Astro-naughts. We have knight visions, night visors, sunglasses reducing the glare of a black sky and electric expanse to but a painting on the inside of your skull, a perfect Impressionist landscape from the other side of Proxima Centauri. The air is breathing for us, tastes like a frozen heartache on your tongue, crystalline nostalgia about being buried happily alive in blankets. We're all still too young in our eggs to realize how that heartache will warm us when we relent and let it melt.
Dot my tease. Crossed my eyes. It's my bedtime. Back to the incubator.
It's 5:36, I'm nearing the end of a bottle of wine, and it just so happens that this is one of those startlingly lucid early-morning moments of inebriation that causes a boy to light another cigarette and nervously let his fingers do the stammering for once. I've got so much to say, but the world is asleep and disinterested, so my eyes alight on some fool target, someone that, upon morning's sober reflection, will still patiently observe me as a kindred spirit, a sooted little bird-of-a-father, and not just a drunken nuisance. That's unlucky you.
So I've gotten this far, and mild horrific bemusement sets in as I realize I haven't a goddamn thing to actually say, that I was mostly just reflecting on the past few months and the saints and sinners therein, and that sometimes when we're at our most self-righteously lonely lows, we just thrash around violently until we maybe brush against something recent and refreshing. If it was just the wine in my blood, I'd probably erase this whole scam, but I've amassed quite a varied collection of bad habits, and none of them point the way towards prudence or patience. Time to string my guts up like a telephone line and pray for a bolt of lightning to come along and set the whole thing crackling and arcing into the dry winter air. Sometimes we pray for a catalyst even when we haven't the wherewithal to actually deal with anything new and confusing.
But with that sort of introduction, there's no recovery, and so I understand now that some secrets are best kept until my lips are but a whisper from your ears.