I ran. I was jarred awake.
I stopped running and turned around. The metaphor of a dragon that was real uncoiled,
a ferocious roar, like being scorned by god,
the breath smells of sour vomit, broken dreams, and abandonment.
I roar back, because I always wake up here.
Sound feel like rubber being stretched around my body...it smells like anesthesia,
I did not wake up and I'm beside myself screaming.
Perplexed, not calm- I witness the mauling. Flesh is torn, blood is mingled with it and clumps spray the area. I can taste my demise and while I expect it to be slimy and wet on me, it instead turns to ash...
The world trade center is gone and I'm in Brooklyn because I can't get across to assist...gape really.
People flood over the Billyburg bridge and are covered in pulverized IBM.
I coped nicely with the world crumbling around me and revenge on everyones mind...I was, I admit, quite comfy with the notion of wrongness.
This path lead me back to all the things that brought me into the building where I had watched the collapse...the marathon to run from what I new was wrong...so fucking wrong. Don't try to make me doubt it, because in my case, false imprisonment and forced compliance- including four weeks without honest FOOD CLOTHES or SHELTER, to make that poisoned and 'resistant' kid that was ME, suck down that mumbo jumbo that was one deluded mans thought on another deluded man named MEL or Charles thought- pisses me off! If I hadn't gotten pissed first, I wouldn't have "woken up". And it's pretty obvious and completely oblique blaming the obvious and oblique involved parties.
I evaded this whole topic because for me it is really dramatic. I drove myself crazy with self loathing in Idaho...it set the pattern for a long time.
That's why I've not been posting and why I still think they're a bunch of dirty pig fuckers...
("We're not gonna take it! NO! We're not gonna take it...ANYMORE) Twisted Sister plays loudly in my head...It's the alarm. I feed the cats. They hate me. Life is good. It's a new year, and I've still got my rage and the support of the universe against me and for me. One way or another some components of my dream are still with me...It's gone. I think about the shrink interrupting me in 2002 while I was raging about Opium production in Afghanistan. He's right. I'm going to misinterpret him, but he surprises me with the simplicity of the sentiment I was not expecting:
"...You said the guy with the axe got paid to make you listen to him tell you about having sex with animals"?
"I told you that last week". I replied simply.
"Go on, you're check cleared"
"What about the fucking pipeline and china and iraq and blackboxes we've been talking about this morning"?
"What about it"?
"Don't be evasive, Dr. Nezzier!"
That's when I knew I was crazy.
I knew the story hadn't ended correctly but everyone in the bar was looking at me. I had just lit the wrong end of a cigarette. rancid. I pretended not to notice but just then I noticed my shoes. They were on. I wasn't wearing pants. OH MY GOD! How could this happen? How embarrassing! Again, I think to myself: THIS IS WHEN I WAKE UP...what was I just talking about, anyway... I back out of the bar after a curt bow. There is applause, but I am awake and stink and have been missing an important garment. I know my name, but for the life of me, I no longer know what I do for a living.