Sunday, July 12, 2015

Journal 78 - Forged Dreams and Rotten Teeth

I wonder where dreams are forged, in molten imaginary
lava to spur on the inquisitive dreamer. I wonder who thinks
these dream thoughts of unicorns and iron-clad monkeys, parading
around the circle like two storm clouds hovering over a zoo
with their broad brooding wings of circumspect clouds. Just
as a car needs wiping for its windshield eyes in the thick
of an August storm, so my eyes need a passing wipe of
their reconjugated vision of a modern heaven and hell.
Hell is so blase in this post-everything world. We live
for tolerance of everyone but always exempt ourselves as mere
satirists satirizing such unenlightened traditional nightmares
inculcated by our evolving and devolving times, our post
intellectual pasture is littered with the bird shit of
yesterday's "dire portents." Premonitions aunt our western sub-
conscious like a wolf in the shade of the evergreen mountain
shades his hunt for the procreating jack-rabbit. We hunt
our prey from the pedestal of enlightened tolerance aiming
beady eyes and eagle fingers at our subordinates to Shhh
and Suppress their bigoted outcry with our satirical holier-
than-thou spittle flying through the vapid void separating
us in some wet attempt to reconstruct our parched ways
of communication with winks and smiles, hugs and light
pats on the back saying "Yes" and "No" but I'm hearing
you not mocking you with my sardonic puerile gapped teeth -
my teeth are clean and it takes work to make teeth clean.
Ideas are like teeth. Rot, molded with colored rubber-bands
they are born and nurtured until unwieldy and coached to
truth by some B- doctor who forgets that grades matter.
We don't like our judges to judge us in public with marks
that could walk the line too far to the right or the left -
we who think with laughter in our thoughts and red wine
on our teeth want our thoughts to blend two realms of
faulty lore - the liberal with her satire and her wit
with the rigter and his certainty even when the shit
of words covered in tradition's blankets lands on tongues wiped
without a working blade. I try to navigate these wave-worn
words with oars on both sides and eyes in front and behind -
but pulled on each side by the undercurrent of their venom -
I gulp and yelp with water drowning every thought I give them.


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