I know, that night, lying on our magic carpet
in the quarter-light, floating in our little dorm,
we cared not about those details
that bother when in broad daylight,
we didn’t mind the improprieties
that pinch when in public spaces.

We were sailing close to the wind,
communicating through fingertips,
unknowing the memories that pricked…
We veered through a common dreamspace,
nestled into each others’ chests
and memorized the sounds they made…
Yes, that night I cried, like that bizarre fish
that refills its own pond of water,
copious tears that went over both our heads
and the carpet sank so deep
that all its magic went down with it.

sharing heart presence
speaking through dreamspace
voices uplifting exploring we glide
trusting connection beyond salutation
template reforming our flow is our guide
time only essence no pendulum weighted
pathways emerge as we spark from inside
receiving dreams as we birth in communion
manifest bounty with joyful shared pride

It feels like I am breaking again.
(That is a lie.)
It's just that I'd forgotten that I was broken, but I'm rousing from the sleep now, and the details are coming back to me. I am falling back out of the dreamspace.
It feels like it is raining everywhere I go. It feels like there are rocks in my shoes and  nothing I do will get them out. It feels like I have shattered the gift I meant to give you, and no matter how hard I try, the cracks in the glass still show. It is ruined, do you hear me? It is worthless, and with every attempt I make to fix it I destroy another aspect of its purity. It is a paradox like everything else. I wanted it to be perfect, god ******, I knew what I was capable of and I knew what you deserved, but now hindsight's got me thinking that maybe it was broken all along, maybe I was broken all along, maybe I was wrong, all wrong.
I'm dry heaving again.
I'm trying to find a mirror out there that will return a reflection I recognize, but I keep creating fictitious images. There is no real, is there? You are not real. I was never real.
I keep wondering what's going on in all the caves I didn't get lost in. I keep wondering what it was that pushed me into this one. I have memories of falling, nothing else. I landed here. I was an explorer before that, I think, or at least I think I thought I was, wait, who am I again? Who are. . .
we?
When I was fifteen someone told me it was okay, that I just didn't know what I wanted. And I guess I believed them, because I've accepted it as a part of me, the not-knowing. I know less and less each day.
I think I'm looking for a reader, maybe, one who's forgiving and bored, one who's willing to overlook the dullness of the style and forget the (lack of) artistic merit and read this **** like letters to a lover.
They are all letters to lovers, future and past and present,
begging pardon, apologizing. That all it's ever been. I'm just trying to make myself understood, and wouldn't you know it, all I've achieved is obfuscation. Once it is broken, it cannot be fixed. I should have known that I've always known. The cracks will always show. The rain will never stop. There is no such thing as perfect.
I am sorry.

z rodziną najsolidniej na zdięciach i w wspomnieniach / with family most solidly tied on photographs and in memories.

and to start off we have king george v
(1865 - 1936) - a doppelgänger of
tsar nicholas ii (1868 - 1918) -
indeed nice photographs but even nicer
photographs of the trenches -
perhaps the oedipus complex only works
on Wilhelms, notably the 2nd -
but dear oh dear O me - looking at them
looking as recordings by the duke of Edinburgh,
or should i say Count Edibletoothpick
as one man said: 'the joke was, i was to either
shove a hundred toothpicks up my ***
rather than get impaled, i chose the toothpick
torture...'
you call this a refined elocution?
most of the time i don't understand them -
ooh chirpy chirpy chow - neglected i call that
aristocratic tongue -
but for kings, queens, princes and princesses,
2nd cousins and all those lookalikes
(princess Eugenie is a blossom -
no fish-eyes in sight, i'm telling ye you
tractor handler, spur the mechanical beast
on into 5ft gear riding alongside
MOD scooters - 30 miles per hour and tears
in their eyes) -
anyway, indeed refined elocution,
a postage stamp on every american tongue,
or a lysergic acid get together of high society -
indeed refined elocution...
but these ornate in jewels crowns and fine linen
are beggars of vocabulary!
ten out of ten on elocution, two out of ten -
housed in glorious castles they have a vocabulary
of a moose (not insulting the moose of course) -
terrible riches in the vault of vocabulary -
the vault is like a street with a Frank Sinatra
muzak (elevator music) pennies from heaven,
it's not even the sort of quiz show altar for one
word kept too keenly remember,
usually a phobia, like the fear of beards
(what about the fear of bearded ladies?) -
pogonophobia - or the fear of ponytails? that too;
but then current news, gotta take a capital
stance: IN A PICKLE OVER LEAKING ART...
the ****** culprits,
Hi R St. scientists claim that dangerous
levels of formaldehyde are leaking
from the pickling of a cow and a shark -
b of the bang, a piece by doubting thomas
  heatherwok dismantled after spikes
  were falling, cost of construction £2 million,
  sold on a scrap heap for £17 thousand -
  sunflower seeds* by Wei Woo Hey
   created a health hazard with people
   walking on the porcelain seeds
   where one avid art admirer
   spotted the ghost of Spinoza in a corner -
dreamspace blew over and two people died
(by Maurice Assisi) -
   a huge umbrella by an anonymous artist
flew off and crushed a woman against a rock -
modern art, a killer - and this is still only
the third page of today's newspaper -
but imagine how a newspaper looked like
from thursday april 22nd 1926 -
well, it looked like footnotes and bibliographies
of books: tightly knit, even Sherlock Holmes
was reading it with a magnifying glass -
almost like terms & conditions sized print -
it wasn't so much a case for literacy but good
eyesight and a magnifying glass.

I find myself stranded, dangling, isolated, unrepresented.
I am a woman, though I won't march this January.

I believe in equality amongst all nations, races, genders
although I have no argument for the lack thereof.

The outrage of vibrant young ethnic men and women
is not mine to share, my white skin paints me guilty.

I am poor, have been my whole life.
I am not mad about it, had I worked harder, read more, wrote more, even cared more, I might have enjoyed the spoils.

I realize there is a stratosphere where dazzling ebony dancers,
stained with dye, decorated in braids, colored like Amazonian royalty
move their minds through a dreamspace whispering the laws of tomorrow.

I do not have an access pass to this heaven.
I can not feel it,
hear it,
find it.
I see it, I  stumble upon it from time to time, only to watch it
envious.

I no longer walk in my sleep
like I did as a child
traversing dreamscapes
unknown and wild
lost in the wakeful world
outside my childs bed
walking in slumber
alone in my head
now sleep plays elusive
it slips the knot
as the witching hour calls
bides, forget me not
til dawns first light chases
the shadows into light
and the dark now defeated
I can surrender the fight
take me back in time please
to my childhood bed
before the night monsters
leased dreamspace in my head.

© J. C.