which serves to remind me
i haven't written anything worth a toss in over a year
the other night i had dreams about alien invasions. and getting lost in the dark. some nights i don't know if it's the street lamp glow, from the corner through the window, that all night long buzzes me into these . where i can run for hours away from The Empty without tiring. and where things make sense. or don't. or, anyways, i don't seem to care. some mornings, i'm afraid to confront the mirror's wake. test the creak of the floorboards under my weight. if only, just in time. and in case.
in my dreams we name our baby after Waterloo station. its hydra-head and slant smile some sign that we were all meant to be. in this way. vaguely fictional and smeared. all our proof-sheet moments fading and marginalized. these hybrid days we send lallygagging ourselves into each other. like a car wreck on the other side of town that we heard about at the bar from someone who only read about it in the paper. or knew someone. who knew someone. who knew someone. and still the slick smell. the oil and blood heavy on our tongues. makes us feel like we were there. that it all suddenly happened to us. as if all we ever wanted was to go out gloriously. all gossip. and fire.