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Driven Engine roaring. Wheels spinning. Finally free of the unplowed drive, I drive. First is second. Owl flies over, kitten in claws. Feathered lands and feasts on the furred. Attempt rescue? No. It's too late. Around the bend charred blackened bones of the newest homes still smolder. Investigate? No. It's too late. Meander on to meaningless songs and finally find the market. I do not find the natural kind of medicine that I seek. Keep seeking. Abducted Wear sandals in the slush and snow. Shards of white don't sting my toes. City bus passes. Charter bus passes. Finally a school bus, with flapping curtains over the windows, sloshes to a stop. Get on. It is only me inside, aside from the doctor-driver. He holds a needle up and grins. Try escape but the aisle is too thin. Stabbed. Numbness. Dumbness. Am caught and flopped into a seat. It is like sleep paralysis. I can fight it. I can escape. I lay and fight. Blisters Dofran is ill. "Check my back," he rasps. There are scattered patches of blisters full of red fluid. Recoil. I've not seen such a blight before. "No doctor. No clinic. No hospital," he says. "Well, you can't stay here," I counter. He lays upon the couch. Red, gooey splotches smear about it. Run for my phone. Try 911 but get random homes. Dofran's brother knocks with offerings of books and food. I tell him of his brother's plague. He lugs his brother, fast, away. Try to use my phone again. Autobiography The writer's circle shares their souls. I love the way they weave their words. Except for one, whose autobiography is mess of misery. He whines of a girlfriend that does not cook, clean, or obey commands for sex. Circle leader asks if he does anything for her. "No," he snips, offended. Circle leader suggests rewriting but from his girlfriend's point of view. Autobiography agrees. We move on to sweeter songs. Lucid Rangers Gathered around grandmother's old tv, we await some new show. It's like Power Rangers but more gritty, forged more for adults. There is no story to be seen. Mind meanders until I hear, "Reality check NOW!" The characters each perform a different reality check and transform into super heroes. They each are expert with one lucid ability. One is the fighter. One is the flyer. One can fold reality. They fight through waves of nightmares, collecting more lucid dreamers along the way. Of all the times they yelled, "Reality check NOW!" I didn't reality check once. There was another couple of dreams but I didn't write them down in the middle of the night. Very grateful for another great batch of recall.
Updated 02-16-2025 at 03:58 AM by 101265
Tyson Typer Caught in a cubicle maze. Placed at the front beside Neil deGrasse Tyson. I read his emails. He dictates replies. He spells out levels of stars. Feel a shine from within. There comes a lull. Silence settles. Boredom soon after. Our combined desk is a table stretching to the edge of a play room. Children enter and run wild. The table between us is filthy. NDG will not let me clean it. It is not our job. We just sit and watch. Spin in my seat. Ride it across the floor. Coworkers join the chairodeo. Cubicles vanish. We spin, roll, crash, laugh. This work is not so bad. Hide or Flee We are packed and prepared for an escape long overdue. As the car is loaded we see strangeness in the west. The sky blinks hellish scarlet. Distant booms announce some doom. Machine guns stutter, sputter closer. "Into the house. Hide.," I say. Everyone obeys. To the basement we crawl and cower. Blip. We are packed and prepped for an escape long overdue. As the car is loaded we see strangeness in the west. The sky blinks scarlet. Booms and stutters tromp closer. "Into the house. Hide," I say. But before they can obey I order, "Stop! I think we did it wrong last time. We need to escape. Get in the car. Go!" They obey. We leave the spilt blood sky and the wails of war behind.
12th Bridges The way is as winding as the river. There is no way across but for the overpasses we slip under. We do not want the highways. We see, sometimes, slender fingers of sandbar poking into the river. Sometimes the fingers nearly poke the wanted shore. These are not the way. They are bridges to other worlds from which crossers never return. We wander on. 13th Wired The world rests. She is snug and warm under the blanket sent. All are forced to stop. But I can not. My fondest dream awaits. Tunnel up through a crystal quilt. Scale the nearest electric stilt. Run cross wires, current-less. "Come down from there before you get hurt!" mother's voice rings from all around. I can not. I call back, "No! There's dreams to be caught!" + 1 lucid dream Hypnagogic -Wiggling lights like aurora borealis shine then warp into tidal waves -See knocking, it looks like spotted snakes
11th Market Madness Creativity is magic. Venders display their wizardry. Now comes introductions. One young wizard weeps and runs. Stop the world to seek him. At the back door lumbers a man, face half hidden, gun in hand. Bar the door as best I can. Announce the coming threat. The world scatters. Shelter neath shrubs. A second gunman joins the first. They flee. Wizards reconvene and discuss safer spaces. A man, as Caucasian as can be, rants stupendously that the white race is the ruin of the world. Sky Tidings Storm clouds stalking. Outrace the rage. Halted by the serene shores of a mirror lake. At its horizon two suns set in harmony. "Take a photo! This is a rare atmospheric phenomenon," I cry. Kayji shoots. Behind us beams a rainbow of vertical stripes. "Get that too! This is even rarer!" She shoots again. Night is a jolt. Upon the lake fireworks dance as if ordained by a certain grey wizard. Reflections upon the lake make double magic. It is enough to wipe away the worry of scourge and storms. + 3 Little Lucid Dreams
Updated 02-12-2025 at 02:25 PM by 101265
10th The Taken They depart, giggling and glowing like the spring. To the base of the mountain they fly to meet virtual dreams in real life. They vanish. KayJi's phone tells that she is six hours to the north. A flood of panic. A cry to deaf police. Where to begin to find the lost before their end?
The 9th Singer Settle into the safety of bed. A stranger face slips through the curtains of my window. His break and enter lullaby does not send me to sleep. Still, I let him sing. Hypnagogic -Too many cars crammed in a driveway -A sea of cheerleaders -A solitary small child runs down a dark snowy street -"Don't you know?" someone asked. I turned to see who -To someone familiar of face I say, "I know you from waking life." One lucid dream to be added later.
The 8th Brightness Faces are friendly. Laughter is warmth while we sit within the east. Sky grows heavy. Clouds fill with ash as they rage in from the south. Rush away home. Here, sky is unblemished. Tiny blooms dot the lawns. Crystal, streetside rivulets run. Walk with Jaytee to where love still lives. World simmers brighter. Lend him sunglasses. Stroll along singing a mirthless song, "The futures so bright we gotta wear shades."
Updated 02-09-2025 at 01:45 PM by 101265
Lioness A day waning. Lioness roars. Spirits scatter like storm sent wind. Most run away. A few run to. Lioness sings. Those who hear are granted wings. We soar into the ever bleeding heart of the west. Perfection Her children stay small. She keeps them in cubbies of sparkling crystal. They are the projection of happiness and health, of fortune and wealth. Can't stand the shine of their pseudo perfection. I hit the holey road. Hypnagogic A square pan full of burnt food from which black ash rises and drifts
Sketchers of Souls With pencil, paper, eagle's eye, we sketch the souls as they roll by. One by one the sketchers fade, leaving unscribbled souls to suffocate neath crystalline undulations of hate. We two, froze, stay sketching. Struggle to record as many souls as we can before the final strike. The Hungry We hunger. Farms faded. Aisles echo. All food has flown into the sun. And as we starve my nephew's voice echoes from the darkest crevasse of my skull to the angriest snarl in my gut, "Are people food?"
Hypnagogic The Bundy's (MWC) eating off the floor like dogs Dots like lazy snowflakes drifting in and out of view Culvert A country too crowded, soaked in a hurried sunset. Try to escape. They have walled all paths. Two planes dance wild. They crash. Their death spark reveals all in the dark. Sky is streams of planes. Distance booms like death. Take cover in a culvert. Cut off from starlight. Misplaced from the moon. We've only the earth for protection. We hope she loves us still. Sing songs from sacred days. Boxed A big city. A big building. A big party. Suddenly locked. Streets are a surge zombie warriors with wings of fire and eyes of guns. Screaming metal and humming drones keep us in our boxes. Gather water. Gather food. Gather what wits are left. Hope rolls to us by way of winding tubes and message marbles. We will survive. Notes: Fasted for 24 hours to see if my dreams would change or I might possibly become lucid. Attack came in every dream I recalled but there was no life or death fear attached so I can't call them frightening or even nightmares.
Back Man He lays on pavement, scooting on his back. Two men orbit him, yowling in nonsense. What is happening? Some strange attack? Social media prank? Eventually curiosity wilts. There's work to do. We leave the trio and reclaim our way. Harry He revives Harry. It's a one man show. He performs his role like a raving clown. But there is no Floyd. It's only Harry. Bizarrely it works. Our vigilant brains fill in the spaces where Floyds words would be. And I, for the life of me, can't comprehend if the show garbage or genius.
Hood He fashions a hood from scraps of human flesh. But it is okay, he says, because his scraps were soul-less, seeded in the secrecy of a lab. Star Shifts Riddled with fearful anticipation we plot our paths either into the mysterious birth or the ever stretching fringe of the known. Red stars or blue stars are guiding lights.
Wonderful to be back. I was lost in a sea of hypnagogic imagery as pain pulled me in and out of dreams. An imploding compound eyeball. A braid of light wisps. Police pushing through my door. Up a steeply inclined string. A vibrating tangle of spectral shapes that nearly was a dream. Imladris? Whispers of moonlight slip through carven beams of a hallway unending. Drifting fluff of soul, aimless and ailing, I amble along. He calls a name that is mine and yet, not. I am a river. Voices are echoes, sacred harmonies so gently easing all the harm in me. A path of new moons and ritual fasts, of magic mantras and dream woven tasks is assigned to me. I agree. Finally there is rest beneath the stars, beside cascades, beyond dim and damned ever reaching hands.
24th Hypnagogia A field of sunflowers is actually a field of suns that are tied off and bobbing like balloons. Messes To hell with the mirth and mess. Flee hypocrisy. The inn is the out. Too soon it too is dirt and distress. The scatter of trash nimbly mutates into a piercing childhood haunt, monster of false memories. Escape filth and faulty flashbacks. Uneasy freedom is found in bizarre streets.
To celebrate the longest night of the year, extra early to bed. Dec 21-22 2024 Please Sultry whispers wake me, "Please let me please you." Mild rage unfurls within to fill the shallow where sleep had been. He stays relentless in his quest until I bitterly confess, "The only way to please me is to let me sleep and lucid dream." Cheese Hum of hushed conversations is surround-sound, nonsensical chorus. Crinkles in the dark catch my ear. Turn. Kay and Jay slurp cheese slices straight off the wrappers. It seems odd until, on the wall, others crinkle and slurp just the same. Hunting Season A boggy field brings me home. "You need to dye your hair lighter. It's hunting season." a stranger tells from the road. I nod. Slog on. Then comes a yip, the slap of paws upon sodden lawn. I turn. Prep for fight or flight. Instead am riddled with delight by the sight of a little fox, ragged and romping, eyes sparking bright. Fearlessly it follows me into the very heart of home. I swear to keep him hidden from the hunt. Sudden Fair Supple solitude and the warm caress of a waning sunset are disrupted. Waves of children flood through the fence. Floating behind, like battered driftwood lumps, come their parents. A carnival erupts. Trapped on a teeter-totter the length of a house, cousin and I carefully lift and lower. Mid plank, perched like a mob of monkeys, a small group sits and sways. Yearn for loneliness of the stolen sunset. Black Days Flicker of hearing and singing Fell on Black Days. Gajeet Her songs, bitter or sweet, are melodious of voice and soul. But her spoken words are angular like tainted arrows ripping through their target hearts. It is agreed that she is evil. We guard our secret scars.
Updated 12-23-2024 at 08:03 PM by 101265