it isn't easy escaping from dreams not that i want to, really but other people seem to they say that dreams aren't real life is but what's real, what you want to believe or what you're forced to?
in the darkened nursery rows upon rows of silent jack-in-the-boxes all paint furiously away at their faces pasting glitter on red-rouged cheeks, gloved hands adjusting a cherry the size of a nose preparing for the morning, when all the little jacks hear the gruesome jingling that means someone else was the one to be loved and cry real tears out of wooden eyes.
Actors associate with actors; the feel of ignorant innocents who cannot imagine the instant rapport of backstage support or the intense intimacy unreal relationships assume steals their fantasy, the myriad lives they exist in in the perspiring adulation of the spotlight. Actors associate with actors.
They all want to play at life. They have not exactly gone to college. Nor gotten their girlfriends pregnant, Nor seen a best friend falling with booze gagging the throat, Not exactly seen their mothers lying in hospital beds dying in deadflower-smelling sheets, Not exactly this have they gotten at nor the meaning of responsibility -- O responsibility, responsibility given by an uncaring sequence of events -- in the most joyous life the Lord, God gave to man Yet they all want to play at life because it is free like all children were free and to stand by a red Corvette with its keys in the hand and then to say over sexy and say over sexy loving, flirtatious meaningless words masking a heart's doubting, doubting, This is something that calls and calls to their blood. They are dreaming when they talk about it and they know it is dreaming to be particular about it and yet: They all want to play at life.
the three year olds prance out, nervous under the hands of strong silent trainers who have had many young thoroughbreds under their calm cautious hands. It isn't that makes a winner. Always some scrub is coming under the wire, some gelding with no pedigree, a day, a drawer of carts who has nothing but heart. The fast lose their hopes of speed in the pack of horses, hooves pounding up to hit and gouge and always another challenger pulling alongside. It takes courage to keep coming on to find dreams in dust and never slow down. It takes memories of days of pulling carts to gallop through a mile and a half and never give in. It takes more than speed to win a race here. Each one is a test of gameness, of what makes a sprinter a classic. The trainers drop soft blankets on sweating backs and rub velvet-dark noses. They know about determination. They have seen many young thoroughbreds come and go.
delicate notes tripping across the stage, stray notes of dust reflecting prisms in the spotlight power building intensity, straing, the tearing octave-jumping cry: Out of nothing at all the shout of a defiant young god blazing from the sound system calling light out of space and the stars out of time in a strideful lament battering out against the walls of the stadium notes glancing off like baritone thunderbolts and yet, his melody falls back, not enough to defeat the rules his universe governs by out of nothing at all. The fading boast lingers in the auditorium before dissolving into the audience, a whisper in the shadow of echoes out of nothing at all
struggling against his rapist's grasp the clammy hands that cling and defile as they touch deep within violating horror in the pleasure, the reluctant surrendering shudders of clenching muscles the rip and twist of a rusty surgeon's knife the violent grapple of a different kind of wedding day.
i'm not afraid of dying that's strange, because i've always heard that normal people can't conceive of their own deaths. i'm not normal, i guess because i'm thinking of killing myself and it doesn't scare me it doesn't scare me at all and that scares me a little because i want to die and i don't know what's wrong with me *** I wrote this 30 years ago. I'm not suicidal anymore, thank God. ***
every other week at sun worship time the heavy, rose-stomping creature tear us into fertilizer for the snobbish trees delaying us in our plans to reach God. every other week our fight to touch Sol is defeated beginning over again the next Godrise twenty-six times a year we fall helpless, our sunstretch dead and yet we grow.
end of a season for the immortal trees end of a lifetime for the ephemeral leaves once red and green barely born now brown and gold ready to fly the trees do not need their children their bright-colored ornaments It is the leaves the fallen fragile who can no longer sing the wind.