Dreams

I was a teenager again
in college
in a crush
with some girl
who drove me to an ice cream parlor
and wouldn't pick up the next phone call
because she was crying
over what some gang members did
to a young murderer
who had thrown a baby into powerlines under an overpass,
and she knew
she was crying over that too
but the torture with the septic tank
was too much for her to handle conceptually
along with all the defacing posters made
of his family
but she wanted to remember
the lucent bright halls
where surfers and skaters laughed by the beach
and played exotic video games
bright with color
and how the human race
used to awake in each others arms
in nature, in burgundy beds made of rose petals
in warmth and electric humidity
which would compliment a gentle kind of love without trespass
but when I saw her in the ice cream parlor again
we couldn't forgive the cruel members of the species
and all she told me
is that she didn't feel
that she had a right to talk to children anymore
even though she was just seventeen and sweet.

her name was unpronouncable except in dream speak
and unlike you perhaps
i think and feel that these people live and exist under a breath of willow
kept in beauties and tragedies that kept their lore seperate
from our waking concrete sometimes-banalities
and i could tell you something exotic
about how i miss the girls and women from my dreams
but that i feel that our time in rest
is and was somehow justice
for we end up moving through travels without chitonous attitudes of forsakeness
and figure maybe in the back of our beings
that if we shared a sedintary colorful breath again
it would be at the end of loud or quiet warfare and atrocity,
we would just sit on green iron benches
when the world realized that Christmas began on the 25th of December
and ends only on the 24th of the next year
like Valentines Day should be expressed
and Thanksgiving
and all the good ones
except perhaps Halloween
and I want to say
to myself before sleep
not to get too depressed
since both dreams and nightmares
seem like evidence of the afterlife
that is secreted away in an exotic commonality of routine and wonder
forgotten by the practice of mechanism
in a waking world lost in a collage of materiality
but don't fret
we don't suffocate even in nightmares
our breath is soft unnoticed quick and long
so share with me a small measure of song
that would lay claim to love through hells and heavens
outside of that painful power of the trigger finger
and the violence of the right hand that grips a knife handle
for we were made for measured weightlessness
outside the gravity of this poorer ambulation
where records find us at our poorest
and amnesias find us at our wealthiest
when we lay down our tired heads
in unknowing communion at nightfall
and travel through territories and characters
too mythic to escape ensconcing us in our sleep
with how we should perhaps live
in the face of pain and ecstasy
as though preparing us
for a moment during Alive Day
where we will have to choose between ice cream or justice,
love or pity, or perhaps even darkness or magic.