Last night on a snow-salted suburban road I saw a deer bound suddenly through the splash of the headlights, followed a moment later by what must have been a pair of coyotes because it's been centuries since there were wolves in this part of the world. It was so folkloric, I expected to see riders the next moment, or the moon. After days of sleepless free-fall and headache it hurt to breathe through, I spent much of this afternoon unconscious, which was terrible for my exposure to daylight but produced vivid dreams only occasionally suggesting a surrealist facsimile of same, such as the second-story view onto a green quadrangle where a policeman was bleeding out milk. Hestia is trying to climb through my arms as I type in her best doctorly fashion. In nearly half a lifetime of chronic illness, I don't think I have ever felt this daily-basis bad.
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- 1: There's no boat to take me where all the stars go to cross the water
- 2: Once you know it's a dream, it can't hurt
- 3: All the ghosts, some old, some new
- 4: The wind is blowing the planes around
- 5: Let the lights run like rivers all over my skin
- 6: I am bound to these shores, I'll be bound till the end
- 7: Wish everyone could hear when she sings
- 8: I cannot feel it, the veil of black, a fine spray of white paint
- 9: I make sure there are hidden messages in my work
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