At home in a strange land

Strange indeed. To wake up from a dream with the feeling you’ve just lost something important. Some foreign hole is taking about as long as your eyes adjusting to fill back in. Whatever you were digging up is slowly suffocated.

A house. With big windows. Red dirt, hazy mountains, two faceless but dear companions. Crisp air. Bright stars. Unobstructed. And something very heavy was shed earlier in dream time. A decision that shifted things and freed some chakra. I remember, but it’s intimidating here.

Sometimes I’ll entertain the thought that dreams are glimpses at an alternate universe. The one where we’re living our other life. Entirely separate worlds birthed from differing moment to moment thought and action, each oblivious of the other’s existence.

I’m sleepy.

A love letter for John Lurie

andSuspendersFedorasBlackandWhiteSmokyLoungesTallDrinksofWater….

 

dark, eerie, beautiful

CHELSEA WOLFE-MOSES

Russian Circles-Verses

 

Captives

“Take me someplace.” She said it like she was suddenly allergic to her own options.

“Where to?” He said it like a cab driver.

She asked him the first place that came to mind.

“The beach.”

Why?

”Because at this time of day it’s mine.”

How is that?

“‘Cause it’s no one else’s. They all abandon it for their own things, I imagine.”

He asked her what she was daydreaming about.

“I won’t tell you that.”

Why not?

“Because those things aren’t mine.”

They could be.

“Not really. Not like you and your beach — I’m horrible at having things.”

He said she had him, but not in that cheesy way.  She knew what he meant.

They went to the beach with a bottle and slurred profoundly about things they wouldn’t remember.

“I don’t think the ocean wants to be owned.” She said it like a liaison.

“It doesn’t have a choice, really.” He said it like a haver.