One primal problem is to define two identical sides of something.
silently lambasting the idiots always. Broadway becomes water. bones become a deaf reverie: the nomadic sleep of my nightmares, a psychic yurt whose structural integrity (horror) never loses gravity in the slightest dimension, which is to say: often awake: my Hydra intelligences, drunk and various, inhabiting different colors and mute gradients where CB radios collect negative air and pawn truckers’ molar dust off to history’s artificial night, dense with slang (all tongues ripped out)--
Saturday. sunlight enters eyes through gaps in fence-vinyl, fractionally, like Gysin's Dream Machine writ large. An ancient tangle of blank spaces, stressed and pulled into hieroglyphics of air. icons
stamped briefly across a tongue, degrade into a gaze,
into a spacious wound,
into a place in my head as hollow as the carcass of dreams.
Needing: 1) fewer enemies in my omnibus, 2) to fight the exploding hagiography of my bedroom mirror that spawns this crooked shrapnel, my teeth.
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