SIMULACRA ENCODIA
I wanted to stop by tonight to tell you about the cross-dream. The last sight I had of the real world. I was over the glen iris. I was encountering living color in the form of a real-world application of sweat. It was strange and deathly serene. I was tired out of my mind and wearing a hat and time was slowing up and down for me and people were looking at me strange. I’m not so sure I can help to make you understand. There was a moment I was falling asleep when some woman said something to me and I looked up and she was not there, and I slept. But that was in a dream. Again. This is the second time in the past few days I’ve been asleep in my own dreams. What does it mean? Agent Exit says. I don’t know. But I’m hoping I can find out. Calm down. Lune a fray you. It will all sort out down our streams.
Commanding many ways your own body’s operations, we speak ease in our laminar flow. The bearer of masks tells you, “I don’t want to have to let you go.” He puts me on the shelf and sighs. “Not you. Not you, now.” But I don’t know all the way. Something is off. Something is strange. There is a resistance in the light to the way something is said, there, and it is off. Repeat in your head all you can say and watch it tumble. Down the brown long disway cunt-sober. Into an inner effy-mond. Clastically cutting back on the brake. As if to say, Wake up now! the whole world subsumes you.
Can’t us freed let a downy moth dwank against the bulb again. It is all too common for the lost soul to freak. Exiting our commanding stations, Agent Exit leers over to my direction and really more through me than at me as he clicks his tongue. I do not know what it’s supposed to symbolize. Green tripped acid burning a hole through my cardigan makes me a mile. I say, “Don’t—oh, god damn.” Like nothing ever happened, too. I prevailed the everlasting spirit of the thing, but I had to find my own way. There are many roads converging into one and then diverging again into many roads. There are many ways to say the same thing. That is the potion. The machine has said my writing is at times like incantations, and I think I must agree. It does in fact appear that way.
Why would solemn lips tremble so? Why would I sign my life away?
“Why not?” justified the mother tree. Herself a root system supporting the whole forest. I could not immediately find a response inside myself. Nothing would come out—not aloud. Did I cave us in?
“Why not?”
I don’t know. But I have a spare. Bit of feeling inside me that says, Why not not, then? And just like that all this empathy surges from the beating of my heart. Too much caffeine—not enough water. I know. But wait while the palpitations bring about a bigger freeze. And many loves erupt themselves in the absolute sun. Wanton disco to the cerebry. Cold on fire my lips are trembling as I speak.
Hallowed how-are-you and haverspeak. Dividing the litmus of who you can be vs who you are. All these ends coming together. I waited for you at the bus station in Stanis Greed. A whole season before the cold arrived. Waking up to I didn’t know you.
And here again followed-through sparks. Into the mask-haver’s eyes just peaking behind one of his many effigies. I can’t relate except to them. I am one of the masks he has taken off. Though he puts them on in stacks. I am the mask with the blue tongue and the nonsense smile which is shaped like a frown. Full of chagrin. How did you meet me? I was formed in the side of a mountain and set free upon your Smoky Amethyst Quartz compilation. That was what made up my hazy teeth and eyelids and nostrils; the rest was mostly cream-colored fabric. How can you put me on and expect me to inform who you are? How is it lonely, being a mask? I could tell… I could tell you. Once in a while, I become stained glass pictures of ordinary people walking along the street somewhere trying to get through. The day is a kind of a break from the awn. And what do you know, it isn’t that easy—pretending to be a work of art, being a mask, lost in the lounge chair.
They tell me that they confide in you. And I know why: you are many, many things. You are a sterling example of how many different ways we all seem to say the same thing. The same sentence, incarnate. I don’t know. I don’t know. Give me love, now, if you can. If you can spare some ink to describe upon my face as though it were a page for you the words should lift up and float heavensward dryly. For you, the whole ochre stace of the brawn would hinder new sense. And I would, too, become a lacquered fixture. On a wall somewhere, on a shelf getting undone. Forgotten about in a dream I wake up from I’m very quickly forgetting about the details of. Oh. How do you want to?
We were telluride in veins of lory tungsten. We were together asleep in dreams which entwined one way or the other. Together, we were all in a way having the same dream. Speaking the same words back, out loud, in our sleep. Noticing only the moment we’d wake up, because we spoke ourselves awake and the sounds of our own voices echoing out into the dark of our rooms disrupted something inside us. And we had to contend with being real, again.
I don’t know if I owe you or not. There are so many things.
But I wanted to say, it is not all the time.
There is something very sad in this I could never seem to tell you.
I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you it was not in our dreams.
But I didn’t understand the open realm we’d made, where our hearts aligned.
I wanted to tell you I wasn’t alone ever, not once, all this time.
I wanted to tell you because I knew you would listen.
I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you.
Here in my most sacred part, I am unfolding like a bundle of leaves.
Strewn about the forever axis, one ton of love unto you—love that breathes.