One time my mother tried to kill me. One time I found a white Buddha in an alley. My mother told me it was from the devil and now the devil would be coming for me. I asked what I should do. She said I could take the Buddha as far away as I could and break it and so I did. She said there was no guarantee the devil still wasn’t coming and likely that very night. I asked her if I stayed awake with all the lights on would that help. Since I knew the devil only likes darkness and if I was awake he couldn’t sneak up on me. She said maybe it might help, probably not. Basically. The devil was coming. And so I sat up with the lights on all night long waiting, terrified. Nothing happened. He hid outside my room watching us all, that’s what I think anyway. I couldn’t keep my eyes open at school the next day. But I did. I was in second grade. I was perfect. And these hallways in this house of ours were dark and haunted by more than just the hidden devil. But countless ghosts and terrifying memories of drunken fathers and dead mothers coming for their children. All these mothers thought I was their child. It was scary. My father disappeared. I’d hunt for him in grocery stores, in the streets. It embarrassed my mother I’d say, “daddy?” to tall blonde men from behind hoping it was him, it never was. I had a small dog who was wise. She was 1. She knew all the back roads and short cuts, I did whatever she wanted. I’d drive her around in the basket of my bike aimlessly. Fearing death. Knowing she would die in 99 years and I would be all alone. I had the idea dogs lived to be 100. I had no idea dogs didn’t fear the devil. Nobody told me anything. I was alone to figure it out. Pierce the veil, little virgin. I was the biggest 1 of all.
And so I know nothing. I attempt the impossible and I am still here riding aimlessly thinking of death and time limits. I am piercing pushing at every unopened place, trying to get in. Meaning get out of this dream. She killed me. And I know it. There is a tiny white light in my face and I cannot say if it’s light coming in or just a hole with light leaking out. That would make sense, in regards to dying. But I am studying the facets of this tiny white tear in the fabric and think I may be wrong. This may be the way. Getting in or out. I might be smaller than I think. Possibly even able to fit. Squeeze harder, push. This is what I’m saying. Dream bardo. This veil that encapsulates us is like astral skin. I would like to rip her skin off and get inside the truth. If it wasn’t Buddha who called himself the devil who was it? I know. I am very confused and yet realize that the air is actually water here and water is made of waves and waves are pulled by a special kind of light made by unstable mothers. Mother’s whose light block the entrance. Both ways. This is profound as a discovery because what this means is that we may not be helpless or hopeless after all. She may be right. I may need to be suffocated. Under water, under her angry body of unforeseen waves. There is no other way but to be raised by the 1 who won’t let you rise. This is the pearl. Inside the alleys and halls. Scared and pedaling wildly. Killing my heart, holding my dog while he stumbles drunkly down the hall. Breaking my white Buddha. Waiting for the devil to take me. This is it, broken child. The piercing of you. Pinned on all fours.
My father had a Harley and would ride me on it. He took me to see huge frozen sharks at sea world. I wrote him poems about killing Vietnamese people. I don’t exaggerate, he was the 1. But he’s gone and now it’s only me and you. I would die for you. It’s between the two of us, these stories passing time. None of it real and yet that’s just a guess. Who we aim to please and rip, open. Let me in, through. Piercing the veil, and when we do. They all get in as well and come for us. We should be colorless like the sky or water against these heavy dark figures stuck to the hallways and mirrors. The entry point into time, endless fondle of dream babies. My lips have kissed them all. Daddy’s death dancers. Sky and water children. We all know them. Don’t pretend your mother too didn’t say, “die” Mine never said a word, she just covered my tiny mouth and pushed. I knew, the truth. The dream I chose. Like heaven knows hell and clearly I wanted to cross over the stigma. That’s a clue, I believe. Little virgin child, maybe you aren’t so innocent after all. Make me. Make me. Make me. Do this to you. Break him in the darkest alley as far away as you can. Come and sit and wait. For the 1. Lights on doesn’t change a thing. Lights off, sit on me. He loves dark places. Your dark places. He’s already there. Inside calling. Passing over, shadow tracks we ride on. Hidden in crevices, dirty mouths as they beg for more. Training her to ride and be ridden. She covered my mouth, she laid on top of my body. Salt like the ocean I tasted on her firm, deadly open palm. Pushing death. Remember me. Down a little bit harder. Every life hurts me and I still want for more. Little tiny dog, go my way, again we traverse, looking and finding him in all things. For 99 years we loved as 1. It’s all the same. And I know I’m white.
Then, I got older. But the dreams. The dreams I couldn’t get in or out of never ended. It all tied together in big knots. These figments of lives, these dreams we can’t cross. Boundaries. Time. Forgetful minds. Hallucination for the sake of God. Beasts we tame the best we can, we feed. They turn on us eventually. We turn and go the other way too. We lose our tiny viewing hole. We become another person. Hurt by pieces that fit so well. And I know this. And splinters get deep and hide like the beasts do. Devil dog, little dog in my basket. The only one who loved me. I still remember her hot tongue licking my tears, baby tears. He was supposed to be here by now. I broke the world open for him. My entire line up, I killed like a wolf, not a puppy. And nobody came. Nobody cared. Nobody loved me like death loved my daddy. I could be someone else next time, for sure he’ll come then. Right inside me. The virgin who has not been pierced by the truth yet. He’s coming. It’s only a matter of time, and position.
So the dreams, maybe nightmares were vivid. Still are, while he haunts me year after year. I cannot tell what is dead or alive. Where the sky ends and the waters begin. This is it. Thirst. And here’s what happened:
We were in a desert. The day had turned to night. The sun became the moon and we didn’t expect anything but to get laid if we were lucky. There was nothing but surface value to any relief at all. There were four of us. Four of us crossing over each other. Two dark and two light. Four of us watching each other for signs, currents of what might be coming. We could have been what we hid and turned our faces inside out. Faced our other bodies in the undertow. Everything glowed silver under the night. White was the earth, sky and trees. Black was the heartbeat, the tongue inside tasting the blueness of what we had become. This memory of waiting to be taken. Black was the shadow she held making faces while he cried for rain from the desert sky. Thirsty and dry. Four of us weeping. Weeping for the other we could not see. Four of us and two bodies hiding two. Two we meant to find, recover our own lost lives inside this triangle with only three lines. The fourth would be the dot in the middle. But we did not know either. One sided slant or the bindu who blew us from out of our center. It was the shock that shook us all. There was one thrust and the sky cracked open, one deep thrust and the little 1 screamed. It’s too much! How much I can’t say but I know the shock took all three of the four. Took them into white strokes of panic that quickly faded, receding into the background and disappearing with nobody left for me to cling to. She’s dead. It’s been 99 years and I’m lost. Me, not only me. I could die on ground this shaky. I might already be gone. Dream above or dream below. I have nothing. Would anyone even be able to tell me, wake me. I knew I was dreaming and I was dreaming I knew. Shake me from the horizon that never seems to end. The horizon I hang upon, over, watching little things, like snakes and scorpions pass beneath me. They’re little. I’m the little 1. I’m bigger than them and yet less deadly plus less willing to die and also more afraid. Where has everyone gone. Four of us. Two dark and two light. Two bodies mixed and thirsty. A long lonely road, no oasis. Not a flower or a friend. I cannot seem to know myself any other way. No way at all. And so I end up here. Where we all go pretending. I can’t pretend. I’m dangling from an invisible branch. There is no tree in the desert that grows, only me imagining my roots must go upward. And it seems as I think so I become and we’ve heard it before but now push becomes shove. Thrust becomes thunder and still no rain to kiss my lonely lips. Where am I if not in your arms? Since I broke you long ago. Who am I if not your body? Since I disappeared through your doorway that morning. What am I if not this wasteland looking for bodies to fill it? Broken. Pierced. All over white.
Anyway, that was only a dream. And since you are potentially real. The nightmare phase has ended. There seems to be four stages. How we pass the strands of time. And although time ended long ago, we just won’t wake up. Scared to death of each other because we leave and erase and draw these lines between us and names around us. Boundaries and identities. I wasn’t interested in getting laid. I only wanted to find the secret garden. Where bodies go to die into something bigger. Than the fear of just themselves. Deadly perfect mothers or fathers who carry guns and kill little dark people. These tiny foreign seeds we all forget and leave behind. These grunts of a searching us. It’s a long way back there, to say I’m sorry I didn’t know. I rode as fast as I could and I waited. I never forgot. She let me breath again. She died when she was 17. 99 was only a dream. Getting lost, finding myself in this dream. Tearing open the skin that separates us from what we really did. We have no idea. I don’t. I have a million recycling images that haunt me to death. When will I see you, really see you. And me. When will we know. How long it takes to love and be loved. Which means entering and being entered by the tiny white light that grows and forms and then shatters and creates the things we hide from. I cannot escape you, you are the entrance into the dreamless white. I know only what I’ve done and mostly what I think it means is what matters. Thinking in fours and hues of what this might imply. Leaving myself for you. We are 1.