Have you ever had those dreams you know, those carbon-dark sorts of dreams?
Where monsters and men made of the same fabric move in and out of each other, amorphic?
I’ve had; those sorts of dreams. those lamp-black, sorts of dreams,
in each one there you are on horseback, bareback from the waist up,
in each one, there you are: astride your shadow steed like a legion of Kazakh Kings;
damn them, these dreams. These gut-wrenching teeth-clenching sweaty sorts of dreams, that melt in, to each other profuse and confused, soporific in nature.
It’s funny, these sorts of dreams, these burnt sienna, lamp flare, cotton-filled dreams.
They remind me of a time, long past where my seas and your shores met like towers in rain, they remind me. Of leafy green, high golden mushroom haze; where my lips and your limbs met wrapped, in polyurethane.
First published in Ricepaper Magazine, July 2019.
It begins shortly past 12:15am with a small can of craft beer. Godspeed Brewery wins Brewery of The Year: according to My Palate.
I sit at kitchen island counters, black and purple scribbles taking over iPhone-sized notebook pages as I pluck out soul-scratching lines. From memories, politics, art history, philosophy. Then it’s time to go to sleep.
11:00am and my eyes blink open to The Beatles. Hair thrown up in a low messy ponytail, I shuttle my ass across the street to the Grapefruit Moon. They greet me like an old friend; mug of coffee and milk straight out of its carton - slapped on the hightop like sweet, cash tips - as I unwrap my writer’s pack: computer. notebook. charger. pen. phone.
The next six hours are spent right here. Shooting the shit with the bartender, owner, cook and, counter-top neighbour. Breaks between writing/editing/submission shifts.
Tenor laughs mix with alto and soprano tones. Mainstream radio, idle chatter, all turned down low. Cups of coffee shift into tofu+veg+cheese scrambles, chick-pea burgers and pints of craft cider. For some reason, I’m a vegetarian when I write. 11:55pm. I kick off my three-point-nine inch heels and log on to my computer to scan my inbox with hope on my lips. I export my words all over the world, you see. Some day, I know some thing will stick.
For now, it’s double negatives and crickets. I distract myself with admin and other business. After all, a pocketbook reminder - this beats spending your life chasing someone else’s dream. Midnight ticks. I hit repeat.
First appeared in my (small press) writing day, July 2019.