bone dry


I came from across the room. I was tired of making the same mistakes. The room was dim and except for me and the candle flames, nothing moved. The past was sinking into another dimension, one that felt like a room. This was it, one pain upon another. Projection piled like a dirty mound of clothes. Getting dressed in the dark. I can still see a face. I don’t have dreams anymore. I am the dream. Myself I see and watch one face, one color, one lonely cry looking for another again and again. This dream of creation. I, being me, the love I draw like the blood they took. Specialists with a bag of perfectly fitting needles. Mistakes of someone else who doesn’t dream or even exist. I am the dream making me. Nobody and nothing else. Everything dresses up nothing, nothing dresses anything and so I’m stuck. In a room called a box. Moving from corner to corner. Lying down sometimes and waiting, pretending I’ve done something right or wrong, praying to a god whose name I can’t even decide, begging for forgiveness for sins I can’t even remember, pleading guilty, for mercy, for the lost light to come back. A beam through a window. I’ve been lost I suppose in a place where the star cannot be born without first paying the price for imaginary evil. I guess the evil is my mistakes. Last night I imagined the room was a submarine deep under water and I was inside and the light coming in through the circular windows wasn’t the moon but the sea water filled with the shimmer of long forgotten sounds. Only whales cry really, not me. I’m on top of the cold song only listening. Tortured by a place that is made only of me, flesh aching for itself in everything warm. Shallow, made of tears I imagine as blood. It’s only me. Throbbing beneath the obsessive fear of death. I myself am without any tangible fear. I touch her and she crumbles, to the floor. Wrinkled and forgotten, like the past when goodnight was a word I thought could matter, but it doesn’t matter. Not goodnight or good morning. The room is not a room it’s an encounter. A very close encounter face to face, erasing. Erasing what was never there anyway. Stopping what never even moved although I thought so. Impotent. Nothing stops the nothingness we can’t face. You can pretend by talking about it. But I was there, and we aren’t. That I know. I know nothing else but the crossing over. One side to another inter-dimensional, distorting the language, pretending it’s not beyond our frame of reference. Little doorways everywhere, little moving breaths, little evil portals. Great wide open lies. Pain beyond blessings from those who are beyond little blurry dreamers such as myself, touching you. This fragment who tells me I’m more than a sliver in a dust storm. Deep in the cell, submerged in my own wet creation. Hardly any air left down here. I watch him squirm. Euphoric and terrified. I know nothing will stop the sea from swallowing. It’s not really a room is the reason. It’s me. Dreaming inside this throat, sucking rainbows from ash. It’s been on fire for awhile now, my body electric. Tied to the cross, ropes tight around my bleeding wrists. You don’t care, you can’t see. Striking matches and vomiting were my two greatest fears but not anymore. I’ve thrown up everyone at least a thousand times, just last year alone. I then lit whatever was left on fire. This is what’s left after that: Only the dream of me moving toward you. Crying tears I can’t even see, hear or find. It’s all in my veins now, coursing the last forgotten blood. The last life before I was down below- even before blood existed or we knew we could breath it and spew it like whales out the top, listen. The cries for each other. Who we’re too afraid to touch. Disappear. The many bad dreams in which I killed or was hunted. Died, raped, condemned by god. Condemned for god. Melted, starved, drowned, left inside still alive. Clawing with no hope at all. Buried beneath a corpse who never loved me. Me, in this room moving toward a memory of sun. To make the night go away even though there is nowhere I would rather be than with me, this dream pain with feet and scars. This perfect beating heart reaching in the dark for you. To see I am not alone or dead, not even yet. Plus I don’t believe submarines can sink. They are already down so low it wouldn’t matter. I could also paint rainbows on these walls made of white. Where the fire never seems to go. Outside any of it but me. Hot and hidden inside.¬†Over this place inside the sea of my burning night dream there are sounds many sounds of ghosts and creatures and animals I’ve never even met. My little dog scratches at the cage I’ve locked him in. Deep in the chamber of starlit skies without any evidence at all and yet I let him out anyway and I open the big door and he looks and steps over the threshold. Shaking but he goes anyway and screams his little dog scream into the black as I watch him descend. Listening for messages, listening for another scratch on the door. I stand on the floor. Cold for no reason.¬†The sounds I never left came back as people who turn into all sorts of visions and schemes. Animals too. Tonight is no different even with bodies that merge and forget. You can try, but you can’t stop me. Lightening strikes my deep listening stomach so I know. I know the fear is in this room hungry to be real. If I am not real. I am not dreaming anymore. That’s the erasing explanation. The reason for the disappearance,¬†there is nothing between us. At all, not me. Just the past we cannot recall that has come back for itself like it always does in these kinds of worlds. Don’t be seduced by noises inbetween heaven and hell. If these locations do exist, you can touch them in me. That’s what I said to the ceiling knowing full well who was still inside. On fire, white fire with nothing left to say but goodnight…


“then I will rise even before the sun is awake and I will hide my name inside your face staring at only myself…then I will breath another morning into her imagination. My dream, myself of an unforgettable, majestic dawn. Low, so low.¬†So deep and dark, the earth will release me.¬†I will then lift the violet midnight from inside of these heavy eyes I watch from below these waters submerged. Because I have realized the star isn’t a star but a song that is waiting to die from your mouth. A lonely window song with watery eyes.

Sing to me.”


Once when I almost died my right lung was filled with water. So they stuck a two foot sucking needle into my back so I could breath again. I knew it wasn’t the first or last time I might leave my own lonely dream. One lung, like one wing isn’t enough. One eye, like one word depends on the eye. This room I hear, I can only think of animals or impersonal objects to get through my days without dying all over again to the loss, the loss of me into this starry night of songs that haunt and float through this crisscrossed violet midnight as if the sky had roads that went somewhere. I listen for us all, falling and missing the earth like we meant it. I could have went deeper, spread further my voice in the dusk. But now you’re gone and I’m still pretending asylum walls don’t also still breath…shaking to death my dog on the loose who knows where I am and yet still cries for death just so he can be near me.¬†And so I made you love me just so I could come back, skin and bones breathing the other world. Which has no rooms or walls or dreams that sing their pain. Which has only me, and sounds like there was never a sound at all. Just a sucking, the bubbles of fermenting chaos turning light sockets back into babies. Mothers with children and fathers with weapons. I never wanted control, I only wanted the emptiness to end. The void to erase that I ever suffered this badly at all. That’s what you were for,

bone dry. Sharada Devi


2 thoughts on “bone dry”

  1. I remember when you left back in 2016…I kept listening to “asleep” by Morrisey over and over and over…I drove out to the fantasy loop church where I saw you the first time and spoke quietly…it was dark and empty and a red light reflected off the polished wooden floor…there was nothing left in the sadness of your wake but the sound of the wind…even the wind seemed to have the maturity to keep moving…there is no getting over it…when we’re moved it pours through us…but it will fill whatever can collect it again…any bottomless vessel…if I could only make it back to the temple and be near you again…I could drive to work and go there on my days off…I could be like the man with Parkinson’s that went there to heal…counting days into months and loop and loop forever…watching my health slowly improve and the darkness of self pity recede back into the forest like black wolves…hear you through them…see you hanging on the wall in brilliant colors…the thangka moves me to keep pouring…keep looping…keep quiet…step softly…bow your head…it’s over…go away now…remain silent…keep moving…a dark forest cabin awaits you…it’s quiet like you like it…a candle burns…it’s dark and scary outside…and quiet…and you’ll be there…just like yesterday…and probably tomorrow…do your practice…and fear not hell…for madness is but a state of mind…and we all eventually must go…

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