My New Novel, Thespia’s Abandon Now Available in Kindle and Nook Formats!

You can sample and purchase my new novel Thespia’s Abandon from Amazon (Kindle) and Barnes and Noble (Nook)! Will be in print format soon. Thanks in advance for purchasing and reading, everyone!

Short Synopsis: A romantic thriller with a satirical edge, Thespia’s Abandon is a glimpse behind the Hollywood veil, centering on a group of people who converge on Tinsel Town in order to fight the forces of evil who run a hegemonic movie studio. Add to this motif a background of revolution, alien visitations, an actress running from her cult-heroine status (as well as her controllers), and you have a thrill-a-minute page-turner that navigates through contemporary issues to an apocalyptic finish.Image

Poppies (Elegy for Philip Seymour Hoffman)

I just thought of you last week in Synechdoche
Pudgy master of your craft
As a tender thread of mortality
Hung in the background of rooms that laughed
And held your sagacious girth, flood and ebb
At to-dos of the cause celeb
Where you disappeared like words.
Your portico was too narrow
So you hid from view what some might dread
Or masked it as you paced your stages bled,
Your grim swagger desperate.
Was it that you thought none’d understand?
Cut off, but all the same cut in?
Who would break your heart upon a wheel
Of doubt where they might feel
Your imprimatur of inner pain let out,
Our screens never wizened without?
But, a season of disgrace unseen upon you
Steered you well down esteem’s blowsy ponds.
On uncanny screens we watched you grow,
Maturing gradual into your most natural role,
But Ixion’s wheel tired you
And Midas’ gold laid his vigor low.
And now to write no part for you,
No further frame scene and shown,
Sorrows the muses and I –
A part so languorously broken
Into naked emotion could un-vex the
Jaded eye.
And you lived among the stone hearts
And smiles where your blistered kingdom
Bled –
Yet live on thus, the many parts have defined
Your Thespian bed.
Your soul’s bellowing cherub has now
Flown to Purgatorio or Parnassus,
Or forever to haunt cinema’s vaulted lapse
Monsieur, oh golden character at long last
Now filled with the ambrosia
You in private doses sought, sing!
Sing to Valhalla, Give me all your dreams!

I just thought of you last week,
And mentioned you aloud,
And here, self-freed, on day of “bowl game”
And mid-season shadow seen,
You take your final curtain call
And your sudden leave.
Poppies of painless rest now must
Molder and weep,
Where our stages have been emptied
Of your keep;
Poppies that once succored you
Bow their heads in grim review
Of your vestige divorced from worlds undue.
Poppies that in sun-drenched fields
Grew high
Whose sad seeds stirred, and by your
Hidden heart imbibed,
Settle now with you in the guiltless tomb
Of filmic light.

My First Novel, “Thespia’s Abandon,” a Romance-Thriller and Hollywood Satire Looking for a Publisher

My new novel, “Thespia’s Abandon,” follows an actress, screenwriter, and revolutionary in L.A. as they battle the forces of darkness, find themselves, and transform their world. It currently needs the good graces of a competent literary agent who’ll take what I believe is a story for our times under their wing, and find it a publisher who specializes in romantic thrillers with a dash of black comedy and satire.

If you would like to read it, let me know and we can correspond and I can send you a pdf file of it. It is copyrighted, and looking for constructive feedback. Please also contact me if you know of a good, trustworthy literary agent as well!

Here’s an excerpt from the book:

Chapter 20

Stavros Luka walked confidently into a production meeting at the Zion offices with Ivan Learner, Larry Savage, and Scott Levin – Zion’s ace-in-the-hole for box office pull – with Savage’s assistant Dawn Peters joining them. Upon entering Larry Savage’s office, Ms. Peters had snootily asked Luka, “And you are…?” to which Zion’s new star screenwriter answered, “Oh, me? I alchemize the mundane into art and screen magic. I’m the writer,” with a million dollar smile and burning eyes that had shook her normally preternaturally all-business manner down. “This way. Please have a seat,” she’d said, upon regaining her composure, showing him into a conference room, where he sat alone, waiting for the rest to join them and silently cursing them for making him wait on them. What are they, doctors? Leaving me in terse anticipation of some examination? thought he.

Then, soon enough, the others joined him, the meeting itself set specifically to determine a director for the project, along with some other preliminaries germane to production, such as production assistants, designers, etc. Much of the meeting dealt with assigning these tasks, with great tedium – only broken when Luka loosened the room up with a couple of jokes.

“Scott has made us over $100 million with his directorial eye,” said Larry Savage proudly, looking particularly suave and cadaverous at the same time. Luka marveled at the walking paradox.

“We think he’s perfect for Sun and Flesh – not simply for that reason alone,” Savage continued.

“May I say something?” Luka asked.

“Well, that’s why you’re here, Luka. To give us your input,” Savage said with slight derision.

“Thank you, Larry. I have no doubts that Scott’s big box office allure will likely help make this project a success, but…”

“Yes?” Ivan Learner leaned in inquisitively.

“Well…I just don’t think he’s got the right vision for this particular story,” Luka declared plainly.

“Why not?” answered a slightly-offended Scott Levin.

There was an awkward silence as Larry Savage cleared his throat.

“No offense to you and your talent, Scott, but I just don’t think your particular style fits with what this story demands,” Luka explained.

“And what style is that? I directed Shadowman A.D. and Laugh Riot, two of the last decade’s most successful films. How much style do you need? Pardon me, but who is this guy again?” Levin asked, frothing with real indignation and looking at Learner and Savage with incredulity.

“Uh, pardon me, Scott, but have you even read my script in full yet? I’m just curious.”

“I’ve read most of it, yes, and plan on finishing it in the run-up to pre-production. What’s the problem here?” Levin asked, looking intently at all the potentates at the table.

“Now hang on here. We’re getting sidetracked,” Larry Savage declared, playing school headmaster. “Luka, you’re out of line. You’re a first-time screenwriter, and Scott knows very well what he’s doing. We trust in him,” he clarified with a slinky grin. “Now, we do appreciate your input, but if you were an established, proven screenwriter, we would be taking your advice a little more seriously. Zion Studios’ films have grossed nearly a billion dollars in its decade of existence. With all due respect to you as a creative wellspring, I believe we know what’s best here, and that’s having Scott behind the lens, okay?”

“Okay, Larry. You guys call the shots, it’s true,” Luka admitted.

“And we gave you a very healthy figure for a first-time movie script, I think,” Ivan Learner added. “For us, your script is sufficient input – as well as any needed re-writes – but, we wanted you here today just to be aware of our production choices, not tell us our director was a bad pick,” he finished with a superior smile.

“Gotcha,” Luka conceded. “I didn’t mean to say he’s a bad director, just-”

“I think we got your gist, there, Luka,” Savage said. “And if we can get on to other business-”

“May I say something here? Thank you,” interjected Levin. “Honestly, Luka, I think your story is the perfect chance for me to craft a more stripped-down, Indie approach, and to do something hewn more out of a real vision of the world.”

“Really?” Luka stared at the director dumbfounded.

“Really,” Levin replied sharply.

“That’s great to hear. But, I wonder if you’re just saying that because of the big money involved, as well as the involvement of Miranda Mills, or if you really want to change up the game and do something with a real artistic vision. Because Laugh Riot to me was not artistry. It was a big budget pacifier designed to compete with Disney and Pixar for the popcorn-munching mass market,” Luka extolled honestly.

“Gentlemen, let’s not get lost in a semantic go-around here again. We’ve got a month here to finish casting, and do our pre-production checklist, so – Scott has the helm, and we’ll be lensing here at our back lots and in Belize for Palomar,” Savage mediated.

Suddenly, the sounds of shouting voices four stories below them on Wilshire became apparent to everyone in the room. A man with a bullhorn was saying something they couldn’t quite make out.

“What on earth is that? Dawn, can you see?” Savage directed his assistant, who went to the window.

“It’s a big mob. Like twenty or so people, with signs. A big, burly guy with a beard and megaphone. Here, I’ll open the window,” said Dawn, doing just that.

“This is the death of culture. And Zion the head vulture!” came the man’s megaphone shout. “Mind control and terror as entertainment. Propaganda, popcorn sales, extortionate tickets for garbage schlock! Don’t buy it! Boycott Zion, Paramount, Twentieth-Century Fox, and put them all in the stocks!” the man railed.

After a few minutes of everyone listening to the man’s amplified protest, the sound of a police siren was added to the din. Luka went to the window and saw four police units at the curb, and several uniformed cops tangling with protesters – one of whom was tasered. Other units soon arrived, and police were trying to subdue the crowd, which was made up of mostly young people, and who were in a riotous mood. Luka and Dawn – as well as other observers in the building and on the street – watched as police engaged in fisticuffs with the protesters, tasered a couple more, and seemed, though, to be increasingly outnumbered, as more and more bystanders rushed in to aid the protesters. One man in a suit rushed up and shouted, “Zion should be boycotted! The shit they peddle as entertainment! You should be arresting them!” he shouted, pointing up at the two sticking their heads out the window. The police were getting back as good or better than what they were dishing out, and began looking frantic. Luka marveled as the mob by this time had more than doubled, with more people stopping in cars and on the sidewalk to either watch the melee or join in.

“Okay, well, let’s get back to it, shall we,” said Larry Savage, finally. “Let’s close those windows and finish our meeting. Dawn, will you go down and kind of…make sure of what’s happening with police and security and everything?”

“Sure,” she said with complicity, making to leave the office.

“I’ll go with her,” said Luka. “I want to get a closer look at the chaos.”

“Okay, I guess we can meet later if we need to. We’ll call you, Luka,” said Savage with pronounced certitude.

“Right. Everyone,” he said, departing fast on Dawn’s heels, they making desultory conversation as they headed down together in the elevator.

Once down in the lobby, the scene on the street was one of a full-blown riot. They stood behind the glass lobby doors watching as the bearded man with the megaphone shouted “orders” to his “troops” like he was Alexander the Great or Napoleon. He knocked a cop down with his megaphone who was trying to bully and arrest him. The man was then tasered, although it seemed to have little effect on him. By now dozens of people had joined in the protest, and were keeping the cops at bay. As Luka and Dawn watched in amazement, the cops shortly thereupon withdrew, like they did during the L.A. riots of 1992. The leader rallied his “troops” with strong words of persuasion, saying, “The movie studios are just the beginning! Tomorrow it will be the so-called halls of justice, our modern-day Bastille, to free our imprisoned brethren across this land, and then, with our great army made of all the disillusioned and marginalized, we will take D.C. itself and put these henchmen of Moloch to rest!” Cheers went up, the crowd absolutely energized. The age of wireless communication also allowed for those in the fray to spread the word fast to theirs, and theirs, and theirs, who were all soon joining in.

“We will finally put this Satan into the ground and begin building the new society!” shouted the leader. Luka went out at this point and approached him, though the man was too worked up to take notice of (or care about) the haut-couture dressed man trying to get his attention. He went on rallying his small army, as Luka was absorbed into the tumult. Eventually, there was a tense standoff between the growing angry mob and SWAT team police reinforcements, who were doing their best not to further agitate the mob, but defuse the situation as best they could. The leader of the mob, who Luka identified as “Buck,” due to multiple people calling his name, was targeted by the police as the instigator. Their own bullhorns pleaded with him to give up, but he was defiant, shouting back his own demands for himself, his people, and his country. Given one final ultimatum that if he did not disperse his mob, they would begin firing rubber bullets and tear gas, the crazed – inspired might be a better word – crowd began breaking up in separate directions, without the reaction the police may have imagined. The broken-off factions each found new neighborhoods nearby to stir up, resulting in many parts of West Hollywood and L.A. becoming hotbeds of vociferous protest, though with relatively little structural or property damage done, compared with the ’92 riots. Mostly graffiti art and strategic “flash mob” infiltrations of certain places and types of businesses. Buck’s message of a new society doing away with the corporate lie was spreading – fast – and all the cops could (mostly) do was “babysit the revolution,” as Buck put it to his followers.

Luka finally found an audience with the hulking poet-prophet revolutionary, who, when finally up close, he recognized from his performance at the Kimera Club.

“Hey, I saw you perform at the Kimera Club the other night. Great stuff,” Luka said. “But, why are you doing this?” Luka asked him.

“Who are you?” Buck retorted, suspicious, looking him up and down.

“Oh, no, I’m sympathetic to your cause. I think corporate fascism should die, too. I’m just curious as to what your special motivation may be.”

“My special motivation? Because this is who I am, and what we all must become, my friend,” Buck answered, looking very Christ and Buddha-like together, a beatific grin sprouting upon his broad face.

“I agree. We must become as laughing children, with innocent hearts, as someone said recently,” Luka responded.

“Who said that? That’s exactly what we-” Buck replied, but at that exact moment he was hit in the head with a rubber bullet, sending him to the tarmac.

“Goddammit!” yelled Luka, as several of Buck’s associates scrambled to pull him to safety. Luka helped them drag Buck to a nearby alleyway, where one of them ran and brought his van over in a flash. They loaded him in, the rest of the mob tangling with the now attacking police, giving him time to escape.

“Where are you taking him?” Luka shouted. The driver gave him a suspicious look.

“Who are you?” he interrogated, as he eyed the now-violent melee unraveling before him.

“I’m…a writer. I want to do a story about him,” Luka answered, as the man searched his eyes for honesty.

“Okay, come with us,” the driver said, as he backed down the alleyway, and out onto the adjoining street. “We’re going back to the safe house. I’m Danny.”

“How far is it?” Luka inquired.

“Several miles,” Danny replied.

“Can you get me back to my car later?”

Buck made a groaning sound and everyone in the truck heaved a sigh of relief, calling out to him all at once.

“Ouch. Goddamn, that hurt,” he stated, sitting up. Rubbing his left forehead, he said, “This is war, I guess. It’s on.”

Back at the “safe house,” Buck resurrected his and Luka’s conversation from the street.

“Who said that? Where did you hear that? It sounds so…” Buck began.

“Familiar? That’s probably because it’s part of the star guardians’ message. The UFO message given in New York and-” Luka replied.

“And Mexico City and Jerusalem. Yeah, that’s right!”

“Yeah, my girlfriend and I were actually there in Central Park a couple of weeks ago when it happened. We heard the message first-hand,” Luka explained.

“Is that so?” Buck answered, putting an ice pack someone handed him to his head. “It’s happening. Our star friends are finally intervening.”

“About damn time,” said Luka. “And perfect timing for your crusade.”

“He wants to do an article on you, Buck,” said the driver.

“Yeah? Are you a reporter?” inquired Buck.

“Not exactly. I’m a screenwriter,” replied Luka.

“Screenwriter?” he asked incredulously, with a pause. “Really? What’s your name? Who have you written for?”

“Really. Name’s Luka. Stavros Luka. But, just Luka. I was meeting with Zion Studios heads today when your protest started. I was in the window watching when that guy in the suit shouted us down, so to speak,” he recounted, laughing. Buck let out deep guffaw, coughing as he did so.

“Yeah, that was classic. He wasn’t even with us,” Buck recalled, amused.

“But then he was. It was great. You really have an uncanny knack for stirring people up, man,” Luka observed.

“So, you’re a screenwriter, eh? Working with Zion? On some new video game movie, or jingoistic recruitment film, or something?” Buck asked, derisively.

“No, not at all, actually. I’m changing the game on them with this one. And, I’m right with you about the state of Hollywood movies, brother. Absolute shit,” Luka replied in a pointed but understanding manner.

“Well, you don’t look like the kind of guy who’d write that shit, anyway. I always picture narrow-skulled simians in tiny rooms with old typewriters, scuttling along like claws on the floors of lost oceans. Living in total fear of writing anything challenging; anything that doesn’t smell of box office lucre,” Buck rhapsodized, taking the ice pack from his head and swooning a bit.

“Are you alright? Hope it’s not a concussion,” Luka remarked.

“I don’t think so. They can’t kill me. If life on the streets of L.A. for twelve years hasn’t killed me, these baby Hitlers certainly won’t be able to get up that early in the morning. Too busy jacking their guns off,” retorted the hirsute muckraker with the knotty forehead. Everyone in the room laughed.

“This is my latest manuscript, by the way. It includes my latest poems, such as Tech Holocaust and Blanched Opus,” Buck declared.

“Oh, yeah, I heard you read Blanched Opus at the Kimera Club the other night,” Luka replied. “Very…stunning. Amazing stuff there.”

“Yeah, that was a raucous evening,” Buck said with a chortle of amazed recall. “It was a beautiful, hedonistic, positive anarchism, and a joyful romp.”

“Definitely. Can I see it? Your manuscript, I mean?” Luka asked. Buck complied immediately, passing him the sheaf of poems. Luka flipped through them, reading a page and a half or so of the seventeen-page Tech Holocaust, which by his reckoning was a sword of fire through the heart of the technocracy.

“It’s funny, I allude to some of the points you’re making in your poetry, like the salvation of man lying strictly with himself, and altering his consciousness and priorities on this planet. Eschewing technology for acts of humanity; the importance of the plant and animal kingdoms in our salvation, et cetera. I couldn’t agree more with your weltanschaaung,” Luka complimented and opined.

Others in the house were soon drawing Buck’s attention away from their conversation. Talk of protest planning and strategic moves like sabotaging media outlets and other of what Buck’s group saw as the “evil apparatus of the cabal” ensued. As this group-gab happened, Luka checked his cell phone, which had a couple of text messages from Miranda and one voice mail from his father, asking if he would be coming home for the holidays. The texts were short and sweet: “Hope u r doing well and meeting went okay. Kisses, M :-)” and “Thinking of you as sunset paints the horizon beautiful, strange colors and I feel all alone”.

Soon, Buck and his entourage ended their deliberations.

“Well, I think I need to lie down for a while, Luka. Let’s meet somewhere soon, I’m interested to talk with you more about films and aliens and the like. I want to hear about your Zion flick. But, for now…” Buck bellowed grandly as he stood up, aiming for a bedroom, “I must confer with Morpheus. Let’s make it Renaissance Books. Friday at 8, I have a poetry reading there. Au revoir,” he finished, smiling, and going into the bedroom and closing the door.

They all stood looking at one another, Buck’s sudden absence causing a pronounced vacuum in the room.

“He’s uh…very persuasive, isn’t he?” Luka asked no one in particular.

“He’s a new messiah, is what he is,” replied a thin young man, looking admiringly at Buck’s closed bedroom door, decorated with .

“That’s very possible. I wouldn’t be surprised,” Luka replied. “Can I get a ride back to Zion?”

“Probably still too early for that at this stage,” declared another young man, switching on a TV and finding a live newscast about the riots. “There’s still a lot of activity going on down there.”

“Well, then to my place out in Westwood?”

“They’re saying not to even go out if you can help it. The protests have spread all over the city,” remarked the one who’d turned on the TV.

“Wow,” Luka marveled, his eyes glued to the TV set.

“Maybe you’d better just crash here. There’s plenty of room,” said Danny.

“Nah. Thanks, though. I think I’ll grab a cab,” Luka replied. When the fourth cab company he called said they weren’t running any cars due to the riots, he exhaled in frustration and disbelief. “I guess I’ll have to take you up on your offer,” he said, flopping down on the couch. He wondered if his car would even still be intact, as he was only parked a half block away from where the SWAT teams had set up. He noticed that it was the day before Halloween, thinking that the media would likely paint out Buck’s brilliant “viral protest” as merely Devil’s Night mayhem. He also noted that tomorrow Malachi DeGrassi would be performing at the Greek Theater. Would he even be able to make it there? The whole world was turned upside down now. It was only mid-afternoon but he was inexplicably tired. He closed his eyes and followed Buck into the arms of Morpheus.

Poetry from a Dream: Making Sense Through Art and Creative Analysis

It is a subject which has, by all reckoning, gone largely unexamined: our nightly dreams and how their analysis or recognition may go into making poetry and other art, as well as give us a better picture of ourselves. But, while many have expostulated upon “dreams,” a la ambitions or aspirations, very few have really made a definitive, authoritative study on this subject. It is the express purpose of this study to remedy that in as substantial a manner as possible.

Any “definitive” study notwithstanding, the long human record of the connection between the dreaming mind and art speaks for itself. The Aboriginal people of Australia made petroglyphs of dream-like, otherworldly figures thousands of years ago – a time they call “Dreamtime”. Indigenous peoples around the globe during this same timeframe have made dream-like art, and have inscribed hieroglyphics and other writings that seem to suggest some kind of “digesting” of dreamed visions. But this is yet another broken bridge between the man of eons past and today’s modern human, who generally hasn’t the time for such whimsicalities as dream interpretation – let alone putting their dreams into verse form. This is a true shame. Because, if ever a species needed intensive (and creative) dream analysis – we are it. But the very push and aims of modern life obviate such empowering things as self-knowledge – otherwise its paradigm of complete exploitation of humanity, the earth, and our natural resources wouldn’t be able to rage on unchecked, unquestioned, unabated. But, I digress.

Poets and artists have a special channel we’re tuned into; we get to drink from the fount of self-knowledge already by being able to create art from the relatively mundane (and less so) aspects of our lives. It seems a most obvious, natural (and preternatural) link – dreams and poetry – though there exists in the artistic record many more visual representations than written ones, of the dreaming brain and its art-making capacity. So, the question then becomes – Why isn’t there more poetry directly hewn from the dreaming mind?

Poe, Coleridge, and Baudelaire proffered their fantastical and phantasmagoric dream imagery. John Berryman compiled his magnum opus The Dream Songs over a decade-long period (perhaps the best representative collection of quotidian, journal-like verse taken from dreams). Jack Kerouac wrote the passages in his Book of Dreams upon immediately awakening, and sometimes in a not-fully-awake state with his dreams still fresh in his head, as he says in the Preface to the Book, “When I woke up from my sleep I just lay there looking at the pictures that were fading slowly like in a movie fadeout into the recesses of my subconscious mind”. The metaphysical and Romantic poets wrote from or about dreams (though with Epic themes dressing them up with high drama, thus losing the more personal aspect). Langston Hughes’ two poems, “Dreams,” and “A Dream Deferred” come up repeatedly when searching for “dream-themed” poems, yet these deal more, again, with “keeping the dream alive,” meaning aspirations, not about our physical, REM-dreaming mind.

So, let us ask, then: What does creating poetry from our dreams do for us – both writer and reader alike? The answer can only be therapy for the writer, and a fuller, more intriguingly personalized picture painted for the reader. Perhaps there will be an element of therapy for the reader, too, if they are receptive and tuned-in enough. Creating poetry from one’s dreams must, then, be seen as the ultimate form of therapeutic analysis of one’s inner, higher, and symbolic self.

Lynn Emanuel writes in this vein directly from a dream in “Dream in Which I Meet Myself”:

Even the butter’s a block of sleazy light. I see that first, as though I am a dreary guest come to a dreary supper. On her table, its scrubbed deal trim and lonely as a cot, is food for one, and everything we’ve ever hated: a plate of pallid grays and whites is succotash and chops are those dark shapes glaring up at us. Are you going to eat this? I want to ask; she’s at the stove dishing up, wearing that apron black and stiff as burned bacon, reserved for maids and waitresses. The dream tells us: She is still a servant. Even here. So she has to clean our plate. It’s horrible to watch. She pokes the bits of stuff into her mouth. The roll’s glued shut like a little box with all that sticky butter. Is this all living gets you? The room, a gun stuck in your back? Don’t move, It says. She’s at the bureau lining up bobby pins. Worried and fed up I wander to the window with its strict bang of blind. My eyes fidget and scratch. And then I see myself: I am this dream’s dog. I want out.

There is a potent ambiguity here: is the author meeting a future self, modeled on a mother-figure? Who is the “her” in “her table”? Is the author seeing a detached, dissociated self – an ”other” she cannot relate to, which in the end she understands must be either herself or a reflection thereof? This is a poignant example of approaching one’s self in dream versification and scrying by syntactical crystal ball just who and what we may be – and why.

Here is another example of dream-based poetry, utilizing specific imagery from my own REM sleep, over two nights in July of this year:

Through the Chaopticon

I.

The chaos of my brain dreams the wildest things;

It is rare if I can make hide or hair

Of the Vaudevillian panoply in my brain stirring:

The recurring mega-malls and false hometown lairs;

And last night – scavenger-hunt golfing

On an indoor course in hospital-complex,

A struggle with younger brother to share

Time, meaning, life, but thrown from leisurely

Care, to run through future antiseptic corridors

Split apart in some Logan’s Run-Brave New World

Casual nightmare, errand-running fugue,

Logic-bare. “We left our clubs against the wall

On the course…we must get back at once lest

Thieves get there” was my cry, but material

Things fell away, and the “course” became

A far greater game than waking life could say.

II.

Dream of green eyes changing to blue

The more as thoughts of love would rule;

Then a flash, and up beyond they flew

To put eyes in the sun for you.

Here, the first section, with its filial and situational specificity contrasts greatly with part two and its more symbolic, compressed expression of dream imagery and pathos. The poem can be seen as a deliberate dichotomy in this vein, concerning the range of possibilities in poetic dream versifying.

And, there are a number of ways one can go about approaching “mining” one’s dreams for poetic and artistic material. There is, say, the purely rhetorical-analytical, utilizing no purely somnolently-inspired tropes for one’s poetic construct, and instead writing a la “What is real?” or “What is my dream saying, or presenting to me?”; there is the “direct image transfer” method, i.e. taking an Imagistic or aesthetic  approach, and describing only what was seen by the mind’s eye; there is the “visceral-effective” approach as well, which would consider only the feelings or emotions provoked by the dream. Leave it to the poet-dreamer to add whatever level of self-analysis s/he deems necessary for the poem in each of these approaches.

And, what do, say, Coleridge’s poems tell us about the dreams and visions he experienced – as well as about their habitually self-medicating author prone to soliciting Morpheus as an oracle (other than pointing out his addictive personality)? Let us take Kubla Khan as a seminal example of a poet writing from a dream or somnolent vision (however edulcorated by imbibing “anodyne” substance). The first several lines from his 1797 celebration of the Mongol ruler’s summer pleasure palace built in the 13th century are thusly rendered:

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree :

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round:

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery

Here, Coleridge expounds on a halcyon desire to reach (or at least wonder at in versification of) a certain Valhalla, or Elysium Fields, though presumably without the inconvenience of crossing the Styx first. Mixing this desire for a Shangri-La while inscribing his own cave walls with the glyphs and tropes of earthly perfection, this is not so much self-analysis from the deep REM dreaming brain than opium visions moving the poet’s rapt, intoxicated head and hand. Nevertheless, there is a kernel of self-analysis contained within this (and many other of) Coleridge’s works. It’s not hard to imagine the poet imagining himself as the Khan, or even as his successor, roaming endless Xanadu-hewn landscapes as a welcome alternative to the growing ecological threat of an industrialized England.

An excerpt from a treatise called Tibetan Dream Yoga says, Dreams are a significant part of our life. They are as real and unreal as life itself. Dreams are extremely personal – and transpersonal, too. Our dreams are a reflection of ourselves: in dreams, no matter how many characters appear, we meet ourselves. Dreams are mirrors to our soul. They can help us to better understand ourselves, our world, and the nature of reality. Dreams introduce us to other dimensions of experience. Here, time and space are much more liquid and plastic; they can be shaped and reshaped almost at will. Dreams hint of other worlds, other lives. They are a glimpse of our afterlife. Everyone dreams, although not all dreams are remembered equally. Fifty-six percent of Americans have had a lucid dream – that is, a dream in which one is aware that one is dreaming. Twenty-one percent say they have a lucid dream once a month or more. Meditators report vividly clear, self-aware dreams weekly and even more often.

From another part of the same work: The Chinese philosopher Chuang Tzu dreamed he was a butterfly. Upon awakening, he wondered whether he was a man who had dreamed he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he was a man. Chuang Tzu’s musings highlight a fundamental truth: life is like a dream. But he was not the first, surely, to have philosophized upon the meaning of their dreams, though his dream of being a butterfly is an obvious symbol of transformation – something with which all poets and artists are intimately familiar when changing visions and symbols into palpable and accessible art forms, as they sense themselves profoundly transformed.

John Berryman, 1965 Pulitzer Prize-winning author of The Dream Songs examined himself ruthlessly in verse, in the poetic character of one Henry, a beleaguered soul addled by too much drink and transgression who tries on many disguises both in dreams and waking life. Berryman “hides” in the character of Henry in order to reveal himself to the world, naked and in a drunken howl of protest, soothsaying and disgust, e.g. in Dream Song 132:

A Small Dream

It was only a small dream of the Golden World,
now you trot off to bed. I’ll turn the machine off,
you’ve danced & trickt us enough.
Unintelligible whines & imprecations, hurled
from the second floor, fail to impress your mother
and I am the only other

and I say go to bed! We’ll meet tomorrow,
acres of threats dissolve into a smile,
you’ll be the Little Baby
again, while I pursue my path of sorrow
& bodies, bodies, to be carried a mile
& dropt. Maybe

if frozen slush will represent the soul
which is to [be] represented in the hereafter
I ask for a decree
dooming my bitter enemies to laughter
advanced against them. If the dream was small
it was my dream also, Henry’s.

The answered riddle of the Sphinx, “Know Thyself” cannot be better enacted than by the recognition and analysis of the play-acting of our dreaming mind. Granted, dreams are nebulous and oft impenetrable territory, and, like meditation, require a dogged discipline in order to fully reap their rewards. It is this author’s strong contention that dream analysis should be taught in schools early on, so that we may be more fully self-realized people, and at the very least encouraged to do so, to counteract environments that end up divorcing us from our highest selves. It almost seems a taboo idea (especially in the western world), this far-flung notion of deeply probing one’s self in order to understand our true essences. Or, perhaps the western world has been deliberately created (or, gradually devised) so as to have our true natures hidden from us. It certainly has seemed to allow the imperialistic powers that be to have much more power wielded over us. If knowledge is power, then ignorance of our core and true selves is a terrific amount of power transferred – to those who don’t share our best interests and exploit that unawareness at every turn.

But, once again, I digress.

Our dreams exist to make sure we know who we are by showing us our true selves. They are also here, by way of adjunct effect, to prompt our creative impulse in a kind of redirect loop. There is no intrinsic difference, then, between the nightly dreaming mind that is preternaturally expressive and our waking poetic (or painterly, sculpting, crafting, etc.) hand. It is simply that we are in a waking state as opposed to unguarded, nocturnal seeing through the mid-brain’s observatory lens into the higher realms.

And, how do we know we are reading the result of the author’s or painter’s dreams, directly? Does it matter that much? Are specifics on this point less important than the alchemy involved in creating a vision of self which others may wonder at, and know both the artist (and themselves) by? C.S. Lewis said that we can mistake dreams for visions, but never visions for dreams. One is oracular – a visitation – and one stems from our drowsing mind playfully and gregariously seeking to make sense of the world – and our being in it.

Poetry and art exist, then, in part, as a creative-analytical vehicle by which to comprehend our higher selves’ purposes and revelatory expressions. This has been borne out throughout recorded history. Supernal examples can be found in religious and Renaissance art; Romantic and metaphysical poetry; the cave paintings of Lascaux and Alta Mira, as well as those of indigenous peoples around the world; perhaps even the monuments built by emperors and kings, a la the Great Pyramids. Kubla Khan himself doubtless acted upon his certainly magnanimous and motivating dreams, and so perhaps Xanadu was itself created as a work of art from a dream – thereby speaking across centuries to another ephemeral dreamer who re-inscribes the works of fellow enraptured souls caught on this airy canvas trying to figure out where we are and should be, but at the very least celebrating the beauty of the setting as we seek ultimate understanding.

AUGUST JOYCEANIA

Ovtha simming chords attractors leave one very coddled behind,

the psychic knocks to take. She too. A lad of view parries thru. Cut the lavender

a wry bees-for-weeks tarried. Curried a sex throb morn in darkened day,

august still. Hush a thorn. Drown your wish best hest thrown a flurry of

dawns grew up hot to crown our crowns with much to light spilling: out,

over, in – to melt our ageless wings of care. And the forry of pantaloum in

blousy shirts of Om did write a daylude hatted as pears’ll fall and all.

When the darkclouded bester spheres come to lightdance dark a rainy

Shade. A taker of skin and giver of plain. I sureshade knot did quiver the strings

After the beastless hymn moved wedded in flesh. Then, crawling in a bestial

Flow was the best eye we cravers shed.  Often busty lines are said. Things.

And others. This and that – O say. We cornered luck in her den and called a

Karma new. So new can it be true? And we clommed in a fine vine we trine!

Where hat to coat and save brain but say the upvoice no to downland frays.

If often notes o fave could entry save I can climb through this mind of many

Trayvons & where could make war will – I unplug.

 

In the vetters fall such magic rugs dreamof & lofted did galaxy ride. One two hide four five play seven highs nine flies – skevvers fielded round the town again go, mazey rat show with trees. Here? Switzamerica blest, confess. “There’re hicks here, too,” says she & the agreed on worm tricks the sky. Where ignorants come agape & stare do same rough roads burn wasty engines on where once princely HU-man rots dingles totters to dough. Sung with these sylphs & glyphs instead head-won’t-blow said O seeded givers tranced. In the full, beggars pain belifted O say once I am saved. (No, not by the hanged man re-arranged.) Say by the rain or blue jays or plumpfruited glades – anything! Courageous gray and inkling of played notes rave and swarm of woman dangles the flay (to owe once who uptime flounced) in the raintease clay-a-more new Augusts fritter say  fay shades more leisure walls unmissed & the obsessive lake-in-mind when child once free & torpor belimned the undestroyed day (shivved gusher blank bid)!

 

Could he story the sun earth water winter in with momdad frid and drove to cradledwater sounds pollen frigate yellowed season where lake flipped over and so did boy tumbled into man…what? No lakefree always kingdoms cartwheel like this? What this world is unbeknown flembeknot none of us could. And then of pretzeldreams say what and why. And the verrious cooms did vim the sights of what we to do and did. Nothing. & the vergoplum roots a neighborly share of the fruits: allsearch for answers where in the late adept face where escapers mungle. She a food run frid. Moon awaits on night to sit. Flyslow close O enemy wound where enterers wanted none, heave one. Extenders fogaboded emlow know: perfumaroles pilgrimage not this time. Awakers voded slow to unmake pain & lube pleasurepalace sot. Better with a panful blue + setters mot. The face for what did & where we be call kletters to unsoup sip a plot. Choppers constant to cluck a grave way. Dressed for the plot Amerikan founder said eat less live longer. Yes I frayed & bestyou stayed. & fooers say none breathe more keep in pranayama do. Like a graveyard for mice or wherestorm mites the sooner blest & mete with sprites. Push leaves & pay a man to cut chop rake heaveway nature’s glories for fence’s sake & humanbusy skid degree flee.

 

Cuv morningportion already gone on this pile of seconds called my life to miters blow real? Scoffers caused scoffins – unbelief shadowed. In what swirlwind mellows a storm apropos stoned on Calinorth silent arenas beautied stamped. For the courageless lives a wink a din a pansyman grated cheeselike rememburrs his first blows and summers vots, could a keep for ferried row bumsavaged claint bestow? In bloodravaged riversadder the fruits of nature rarer bee – in museums soon and make food appointments see if we have but Russian lines. In pressurebrain siggers sought where he a lifenormal row? Where or who to all his hymns ‘n poems tow? Erect from scribble o whims a strade for standing story of the world. It was the presshuss tones to migger the souldanceing flow and wordmake from the raucous nebulous mythoma in lodes. Could forever write if believe better ca-know a plied-by-terror ting? cat he whines now for fishsnack ways & get the teeth in safekeep munchy prize in all our deeps. Gastrick reliquary for feeps ‘n dozen leaps! Family crest in northern labyrinths burns in its fobbed keep. Silentphoto folded sorrymother could u smilereal maybe once? Once when girl wide-eyed, once when woman undied eternity’s trance unblamed. Ican stillwrite? (a gifted surely ham of page and strings, rhymes and lines.

 

And the firm one figger far one back out of sack still here. O life to figure what do, will or what must can. My, she rolls a chariot hers o down the spivvy canyon sounds. Piney curved rhoadkill more and more and more o urgent less consume please be. But a constant life till blind and blood no longer sea. Lifted hevvin breathless tube bee? Uknee verse will ended be a start to thee, O unscene. The seed that sprouts ne’er sees, in soil, the upper skigh and sunny whorl. Calyxes that in epic blooms do run – those are my kingdumbs, my glades where once on horses with milaydee did sun. to see life and life to be a nowing negating frave to trivver a laugh. To say a babe’s to say earth’s done? Others rank to fix a make where bibbers lone and two would rake. Changers air-rogue-ant stoppered knot unmake a self, but procreant down false roads no/n/ not. Time sits heavy on the blind while seers pay the cost. O giant heave these knots upon the deck so mad Ahab may he see, prevent dizz-astery. A stigger of the grand chew my role has form: to zig where needed zag but wait don’t keep zigging fave nest scowl-howl besty gamed. Afterimage child strange learning in a toil now to uncoil the snake & hevvers best lipped givvy up the dam, the self so blamed. Bested kept the balm of sainteddemons’ test. Now undo. For figger a farther shine and if a comfy self u leave behind, then…be liver never one seen afore to say of life a god livingnow in you, this facet best. Reflect all others as the tumblin monks would do. Bow to the ignorant eaters? “Thank you for being my teacher” thaybow and how unity to have, show the humbler way & wave off wandering ego flats. O slat of warmleaf echoes & bucket ‘o lavender on decktable provides more than ah thousand soupermarketplaces combined. So hear how fast I in the tumblemountain sighs, and rise. The outro stretched in samba slow where the weltereater manned the fathered show. Where a brook could stop you – Earth’s M.O. A bouncingmotive heady enclosed & furred fit purrfumed bloom and clow. If eye went back to halls in new clothes & pencils books and knew w/ friends cheeky droll bemused to teach the teachers would I grow? Would to feel that newgifty flow shorty embarrassed the asses with his Christed glow, but where I would merrymake bikeriding to and from and back again…a stave o’ misty years clonged unfrid trees and sea-sons parentage say how go – if adept you blondhaired came to know family hireark-I-call sapient the somedays but September would leave me orangeyellowed with sorrow…& a velge to have a moomday wolf of nothingness would hinge on treeclimb soars. Shot the sparrow and now I burn for. Velved a chiv o rightly smoked a vaf of nug. Stony in the stoner’s mug. Thought a goodfriend blood for life. To roll the summerdays by and find the magic leafybud. Stearic  end the fline of breen. Tasty in the sideways weeks months days the prince came out of hiding said what was. stares ‘n silence and hammered heavy headbanging lostways liffed! Smoked and saw music did he give, was seen a youngbrain smoky in the breen o Buddha laughless ne’er again and sprouted further veins. Chucked a flash of hash and soped the games & tricks in Comstock of the elvish players flying. Bang in your smoke lit but malish us never just funning in the epochal ever. In the fells of epic masters music-king the miles of vision N-tranced. Plugged in and drummer friend a bass then banded me out. Fine, mix the sound and tink of dough you give. Grungepipers louder than good did sink from egoheavy vains. Shunned friend all the time had talentthe more in one pluckfinger than the whole vanload in fullwail! Making more and sagacious musewick than ever decadesafter and nights that orchestrate consequence of shroudless viz-ions! Cohorts fake the door were given. Firds or fakelast grown away riven. Curb the gast of devilmuch “your friends” would hide. Now take the stage O find the songs in your hands that fell from eld-rich trees very the good. & the culls that progue you fet more sum the rain: fever re-fave, raver abstained! & the tupfloe yorst of mouths mis-youthed yergang.

 

Muchwell though the safety where Buddha suchness threads. Weelfelain the triggers fenced & suchness blast. Be born of the Weigh & tiredthrown the oldways slake the strain. Augusts all numbered vary the myths of time’s allowance your staying world! Ferrous bird all trouncy, how theyhunger the packs! Trellised O sine of muskers the hidden have. & seared the sallied wrath of serried space – wanton fools & fawned-upon face. Go see kressers spoil the furled & all goodworks now besters of fate face this. Suggers chouth a mythvaried waste & fought in births of clattered Mays. Sphinxy boycat longlived he in bluechair mewy models of grace! And no more mourned muddlers upsent distract from truth’s charade, where he gangly upped & prowled he the Sphinxy catboy murring the mounds. Once I sat there mourned my blithey clouds & the mirthknots glowed with our terraces of plummy doubt. That courage wakes the flout. That simmers bought the rout and fingered it out. Eiffel from our touchy viewscape gaveway to Blarney kissing realstone treads in real lands that don’t thoughtless piss on fancy or mothball delicates of frace. Seeing & knowing & saying the Irish experts all – let all Yanks learn. Why we now burn the world – in our own pyre sold to us as solution to our pornographic and unglowy yords! To stoney sake the ponied fjords, already vista’d in Patagonian flance. Yousaid and fearghosts fled. But not afore they socked a bruised leg. Polterguised veery beds? Was I steaming and bleary for none? I was all skithers of doubt but exorcising the she-demons of selfdamaged shrouds.  & long before as elfin blondkicker shast where the comeless are-key-types of being blast – hezzy O daze bestrapped. Momdad said so, in a blow, on a wing and aghast. Out in yard saw bombers high and neighbor pal stuffed dirt in this maw as payment for boorish mest. Shake we junglejim and film the mess – quakearth in emerald city west we seven-eight years odd did crest. Whoa blow these unstoppable seens & camera endless filming with the sense at seven of a chronologicalligraphic fest of self and worldmirror to pour ignored-not-tales the more and run these vales o’ path, or in basements see what is. Both sons of John, one in bossy flims on birthday 10th that fiery fall aroused such gifts. Torn from friends firm and southground turns, at nine across town might have been ah thousand miles: one foot on the Moran Prairie and one on High Drive. One caller Montana and one alpine to ski lake thrive. Bob like cotton in her waves sired, too.

……………………….

Never to shake a hymnless trying, where church and state endless lying, a mothered soul lost it all though ne’er forgot the lyric-call, softing in the waftless crawl. Kids hiding in leaf-pile streets where cars I sensed the danger and then did in height of some-myrrh blackout at ten, blacken the streets completely in a time-lost fout. Seer a plumb completely where you shout! Didst the wren of lines commit? Verse t’ranged Europa plessed by light history sunk away, now folks liveright stay. Amerika the last and gassed to learn the Way. Wafty after bitter calls are the ‘winged withall’. Outly peep, scribble-scrabble do-dad-day.

Offist hiffers golden shank, destiny in deadfish breached in oily bay, sunk by beedeaths the verve to grieve our only catch. Would in ’10 say an end when up oily gash erupted earth’s jugular severed and still our reliance-fossil breaths. Zoomed to me realmemory sest that day 7-82 when tarmac slammed to my crane-hum saddened on loaded looks. Cravy top sound abound! “Do you kids love laying around in the street?” the old woman ignorant say of injured child. And spittle pooled on waking the unconscious ridedream, and rose Iran for home close teary safe upstairs frightened for meself in blackspace taste of death. Same day mother say we mountain go with a Jane to take pics for a project’s plain. Skihill summerdrove and nauseous all the way and headache from groundslam throbbed me looking. Did updrive and down, finally mothertended the boy but knew only bikefell not slept in street knocked out.

Concussed nonplused & bussed in car whilst women artful framed, then got back with my bruised brain. Where may have opened a fenestra to the Fevens, though I had the gift before that. ‘Twas my cosine exsanguinator of trilly dines. Not to rob the mooring rines. Was in time or portal out to simulation? A verrous crair of emulation? Cathode bare & bombers roared, bluespruced high & summers’ murmurs core. Did go wrong somewhere & slow. Where now the mandibular middleager sireof poems intones colorzones of pastery proud? A mythversion mastered by the only guru for my life – who now holds this pen. Vernous ven the catted hen, how hurry-curry the vacuous fen, in pergy-plated stay. Prizz-sonner hemmed and simmered to plen. Could the risen day now a holy dark upsend? Versend the plyant plea for solo fends. Sands. Upper the rainless stormimage hangs her planks of white and seas of blue, graying dimbolt retinue the glideless man on sea or cloud. On the drony node of cancontinence roughed we dibbers built a platform strange burning towers of Babel out of promises made, our storming future arrested in twin tracks oblade. Hopery played in the stormy dawns & chose words and lines bemade of rangy flows. Goodness knows a serpent, and the serpent shows. Evil knows all hellish hopes. Burn the effing palaces sworn! Burndigger the fatulous trown – for each sunswigger there’s a heartless clown.

Embattle the offing gade, we edge a proliffing probemost lay. & fowling the mourning wind was a cuckle-cadoo over the way and near astray. Soaper most is trenchantly feared? To be the dirtiest unborn smiler to rot before you. In the skyling’s dorns a dove. We blatted on and on all life’s symphony. What hummingbird’s humming flap wings zip overhead now, the lovebirds deux dogfight clown. Knotty all the faces on cherrytree feles & bibing mine tells. Would all lakes darken to the dawning truth in now’s well – that from this once rich planet lifebold foresworn now sinks in a demonology of useless ways(te)? How many lifeforms delent each day? To live on her now is an awful poem of torture and pain authored by a mad demon false arrayed. A clutch of hooks stingered the piles & blind pushed on our figgered flore. Into forests, seas, prairielands, skies and plays. Into my broken heart its lies. Vento tombless smiles & swetters viled. Went once to see & now to see no more. Morey the more and money the gore. Awake thinking of chaos reigning Earth’s habit-tats & the rodding display. Breathing couldn’t last night be, but thought of the children stricken Sudanese. And all children & persons renting ghastly lives. Fordy with a psychic wife dostblane the verchers of the coiled perlife – vem the vain and voil the hive! She stayned with stomacher pains rare to mend the gulch soft wails. Pained in the friended march could with helpmete wipe traitors from her map.

Gaia glows in stopless clat. No karmic worries will block this bat. Highest karma to the darkkilling candle! But wait we must for the planetary signal? Vest o’ burming fots. If the way to stay runs fay, it runs with Kali’s sleigh. Punch widdle the sharming feds; punch the one who your bed attacks. Kill you would the one who poisons you, your family, your home – setting fire to your castle. Bring the boiling oil to the forepeak and cast it down! Wait you not for the perfect time and place – uncertain even what it is. Instinct cures the lanes of cidal yorns. Pulls its blade and severs the head of Grendel illborn. See Grendel burning your towers, raping your children, spitting out pestilence upon your lands and heads. What now. To do. St. George took a blade sharptrue gleaming. Likewise Launcelot in ancient days of infamy aimed. A blade called Very Tor.  For the brimming envy floored we moored. Marco Polo grotted Kubla Khan much more to explore the outer doors. Fernling troddy trine deboot the prine. Veldy fotty wooks, scan free-dumb in dusty books. Would prize be realive and not in fettered story trived? Interrobang me, dine. Fine, O liars when you burn from this realm. Still warmth surrounds my poured lines’ grine fine. If belief fell to poisoners, inc.  who make careers from lies to sell you cheapmade berths.

 

Spatial nod greedy blab…

Wonderworn couldsay belly of days. Hinterland sacked creeds of obvious doom.

 

A featheredword:

 

And then let flow the tunic sleeves -

Let none assault this masterpiece!

And solve the years of these scowls

And golay beneath golden leaves.

Not with a woman proud as this summit –

Not with a tear blown from every eye;

Here, where the charioteer eats manna,

Here, where the everlasting forsooth would I.

 

But oft let us build these sunny towers;

Sluices of blood mimic alpine waters, and veinly

Shoot these rapids to delirious brain. Study, Samson,

These Herculean dreams, then ferment in your cottagebarrels

This vigor-us wine. How wave these orchards’ hands

So patient splayed, where green heavens here and now

Leave us no afeared nadir of sun and shade.

 

Ack, tumble bears soft from free box

Where lack’s din melts to porch the fox.

 

What would these rudiments of lips

Signify if we on drowning ships

Had to search for love between

The icebergs cracked and melting?

Would woe vault her icy eye

To more tropical rimes

And the dolorous scent of mordant clime

Where the bodies all line up for

Lashings from Neptune and Ra?

So-fa, so-la, Zeus pulls on

his gray beard

But leaves us so.

 

 

Dreams and Poetry: Making Sense Through Art

While recently researching dreams and how they effect the writing of poetry, I have found a lamentably small amount of material on the subject – in an expostulatory, scholarly sense. Sure, many poets have written about the theme of dreams in general, though only a handful of well-known authors have successfully melded their individual dreams (or nightmares) into various works, John Berryman, Michael Collier, and Lynn Emanuel come to mind as latter-day examples. DeChirico, Chagall, Dali and some of the other Fauvists and Surrealists have expressed it supremely well visually (the visual medium being perhaps far more accommodating to the dreaming artist/interpreter).

You see, I have a Facebook poetry group called “Whambolist Poets of the 21stC,” and for the month of July I have chosen the theme of “Dreams and Their Influence on Writing Poetry,” which has garnered little feedback, surprisingly, though now I see that it is ground that has only been tenuously tilled, if not left to permafrost. My goal regarding this is to break through that layer and probe far deeper into the relationship between dreaming and making poetry and art. Maybe I am being presumptuous in my tacit assessment of this strange-yet-obvious marriage. I am going on Internet research I have done in the last week or so, and have not seen a preponderance of anything academic or authoritative at all on the subject, but please turn me on to germane sources if you can find any links to articles on the subject. as it would be greatly appreciated.

In the meantime, here is a poem I composed just today, representing my attempt to meld dreaming and the composition of poetry in a spirit of dream analysis. Feel free to leave me your constructive or sympathetic feedback:

 

Through the Chaopticon

I.

The chaos of my brain dreams the wildest things;
It is rare if I can make hide or hair
Of the Vaudevillian panoply in my brain stirring:
The recurring mega-malls and false hometown lairs;
And last night – scavenger-hunt golfing
On an indoor course in hospital-complex,
A struggle with younger brother to share
Time, meaning, life, but thrown from leisurely
Care, to run through future antiseptic corridors
Split apart in some Logan’s Run-Brave New World
Casual nightmare errand-running fugue,
Logic-bare. “We left our clubs against the wall
On the course…we must get back at once lest
Thieves get there” was my cry, but material
Things fell away, and the “course” became
A far greater game than waking life could say.