These are actual quotes taken from a phone call courtesy your man of the people, 6-nation-invading “leader”. Enjoy the racist extremist talk from your current joker-in-chief corporate jihadist asswipe.
These are actual quotes taken from a phone call courtesy your man of the people, 6-nation-invading “leader”. Enjoy the racist extremist talk from your current joker-in-chief corporate jihadist asswipe.
Cognate multiplicitous – o narrative of everything
Which we can psychically see into – across beyond before
As I stand here on fragile breaths, the fleshy door
I can invent sight-story-saying, gentle mirth
Destroyed, but playing – just salvage something –
Anything. What do you want to know?
With the fur and arms that come springing,
Bearing the idol of this portion’s idea, gesticulating,
A convent for vagabond urges,
The mother of silence retrieves her ghosts;
Groves of the pied phantom ring the seasons’ bells
Affrighted by such unorthodox hells,
Such a tangled matrix we weave
When first we practice to believe;
Station where love itself deceives
Yields flowers we’d not oft receive.
We all suffer each other madly – Family,
Mother envies waifish daughter,
Daughter adores, then scorns the mother;
Father resents them both for smothering
His manly pleasures. Around this
grows a knotted web – spider’s moss,
grafted laconic limbs on august trees –
Her lover, her fortune, her grasp of things;
What we think is, and what really is –
Retreat to symbiance of fantasy-dibs,
Sink in delusion quagmire,
Hide in privations, differentiate desires…
We split our differences & infinitives
And leave with magic in the can
When once enjoined on such a unified
March became the direst of opposites
To lurch into the gold sea. When cat-leap
mousers would trample the sample-prize
For the getting of the monarch’s eyes.
To gain o many windows in porphyry of shadows.
Why did I awake thinking of Constantinople?
I channeled a Timbuktu shaman
In candle-and-bath chanting transcendence;
Semahib is no longer the unknown god,
But is now the god of all known things, too.
As well, sensations, feelings, places, insights.
Like Dick’s god of “the trash in the alley,” it is a
Palpable, direct god of causation, modality,
OUR primary action and effect.
The wonder gained – when thunder reigned:
A pinhole price guaranteed, though waived;
What is genius but an opened way, or
One who has opened a way forth from this
Sticky chaos? A real-mass relation – old disaster footage
(why in this elation disastrous thoughts
Raising their chicken heads?) O, foible!
Thump private hurricanes, hum-bull wave
Of fettered knot twined human time –
Was this the Gordian Knot at last severed?
The great secret opened, the genie and the djinn,
The spy of grieving fluff begin – even nostalgia
Becomes obsolete when hatred has destroyed
Our streets, such fleets, that withered in rust’s empire.
Ovarious versedit, versea
Ahoy the marble sea
My joys flung across cold worlds:
Cabbage would the ample bean.
What am I supposed to do with all these bourgeois scenes?
Progenitory wastage dropped me blind, see.
I weep for Birdie Africa!
O weep for Birdie Africa!
The massacrists removed his smile
Like Nazi dentists extracting a (good) tooth.
May the Osage fires forever burn beneath your beds!
Home what beds and water
Assay these rooms a gentle slaughter
Fill a dell, fee ya, brotherly love
By fell enmity cracked, random lives,
– Who won the game of hives?
Madame X installs a piano in your squirming
Conscience, forestall kicks and skull flounce,
Bulldoze them out.
Houses of the dead sit beneath winter’s sky,
Yesterday the lookers high, Spring looming
As youth espies or dies or flies
back to Parnassus or Boetia – heavy color flares –
The only subtraction is death, or abstraction,
Distraction. Girl in mauve Lafayette necropolis
Tosses care like corset to the ground.
Confession time: “I want you to be beautiful” –
Between the tombs they search the parochial
Sky, man’s prisons, God’s lie, but through
Morning’s glory are they revived from the
Tombs of ignorance. Never the same sky twice.
Twice the pearl to leaden dice. Twice and thrice
went straight to his head.
Sky smoke of what you kneel beneath,
the blue – “fortune over soul” died
Where the Hellenist walked the wasteland,
wastewater, wasteair, wastefire…
This mass wants a heart to listen
This heart’s mass thins and thickens
Where rake meets loam and April smiles;
We plunge forth with our desires
As simple as to till the mulch-soil
And secrete the earthen glands –
This mass wants our starry hearts to
Feel real – not weigh the burry chaff –
Let it go, it says, “This Way to the Sun!”
Up the road, raking the loam, brushing
Earth’s hair, unsullied the sown, and
climb the cherry again !
I put the weed back that cried its denizens’
Shady sum; and apple boughs got first water
The bright, dry day has snakes coiling in the hedges;
Someday’s amorous mass clings along
These songs and travails (not trivial)
Seeding hieroglyphs to challenge our wrongs.
My barrow is the year, dumped in hallowed
Grounds, fewer, though, than the grievous
Rounds this torn dream makes. Daimonic!
To venge a cur for mournful rakes,
so must it be. A mother recalled emptily,
All night the crested fledge o’erflew peace.
Please, peace my bosomed nest.
Tadpole ponds waited all winter to undress.
What happened? To your vest?
The kingdom’s besters all sharp, abreast.
Remember O child has scented best
Its storms and vales blest.
I recall the tigers and the japes, wounds –
Summer crowds and singalong blues.
Jet expansion of a tech-world housed,
Keepers of the keepers keep them unaroused.
Hail the new bees!
For ‘tis in the springdirt I get my bare feet
Expending strengthful under the new day
And within its heart so many of these
Wings chasing to neighbor’s bonfire
My place for the day, softly.
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.
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
And you lived among the stone hearts
And smiles where your blistered kingdom
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
Whose sad seeds stirred, and by your
Hidden heart imbibed,
Settle now with you in the guiltless tomb
Of filmic light.
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:
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.
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
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.
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.