Dead Mothers Don’t Dine

I dreamt I was miniature, traveling through a labyrinthine trailer park diseased with taupe colored muck, and flip-flopping mudskippers; pectoral fins glimmered in waves, despite the sunless, flat grey ceiling of a sky. My skin screamed at the loathsome goby touch, and my mouse heart beat savagely against its cage. Panic drove my legs, and

Dreams of Ben (a dream journal excerpt)

“Have a peek through the keyhole,” Benjamin says. He prefers plain Ben, but every morning I forget this predilection as his face is erased by fresh daylight. My waking eyes are blind to the spectre I call Benjamin. In my recurring dream, he is boyish, and handsome–that is all I do recall. “What will I

I Dream of You

  Black and White Killer In the darkness, you teach me Spirit Animal

Anticipation

Do you go to them? In the middle of the night tucked into their beds? Do they miss you properly? I do; you don’t come to me.

Dear Norman Reedus,

I dreamt of you (again). It was an epic dream, the kind that picks up where it leaves off after waking a few moments to roll over, or take a quick middle of the night piss. You were a school janitor, and dressed accordingly. I don’t know what the fuck I was doing in school;

In Color

grain grey and silver light I sometimes dream in black and white flash paper film, flimsy flames flicker, monochrome whimsy and I am the tinder ashes fly, cigarette cinder I collect at your feet please do finish your whiskey neat I will watch you imbibe, classy bastard good with a gibe upon the floor my

America: only in your heart

Have you seen better days?

Oh, You Poor Girl

I dreamt of you–again. It’s been years, but in my sleep I still recall every feature of your fine pale face and the guttural tone of your voice. I can still smell menthol ciggies, and gin and tonic clinging to your breath. Every night I spend with your phantom banging around inside my head, I

Eternally October

In his dreams, she dances In and out of shadow and luminescence. Her liquescent movements are reminiscent Of a languid flame that once danced for the rose candle, Which now sits cold, useless— Dead since late October.   He breathes deeply scents of Sandalwood and rose, the essence of her hair. He tastes the redolence