The Right Column
My latest novel in production is called The Antique Snow Globe
The following is not and excerpt from this new novel:

Wake up from a dream and it seems like this is a new world. My comatose arm, on account of me leaning on a nerve, drapes across the pillow. Strange locational dream of being in a grand house.

Location dreams. It's the sense of a place. In any case the 'place' of a dream holds a lot of the dreams essence. Dreams essence? Philosophers would have a field day flaying whatever I might say about essence into nonsense.

Never the less, damn the neigh-saying polemicists and their strict empiricism, the location and the scene inside of a dream has very important meaning.

The meaning is, of course, for the dreamer. The details of certain or uncertain chance is something bake up special for the dreamer by . . . whatever conscious or subconscious processes exist within the mind of the dreamer and also the readers of my proto-blog.

Truth doesn't need the Internet. Reality doesn't wait around for censors to tell it what it should be. Wind doesn't fill in a schedule. It doesn't do time cards. It has no way to be reckoned with. It exists not needing time say, in effect, "Here I am, strangers are you all, I care not for your dramas and your museums, your libraries and your amphitheaters, your rules of spelling and grammar."

The reader, the readers of this blog, on the other hand, may care very much for the rules of grammar. Words put in the wrong order or words missed . . . they might make a piece mean something completely opposite than what was meant (in whatever small way). So if it ever troubles you what I have said then remember, you, too, can edit and say 'how could he mean that?'

We're all friends, here on the Internet, aren't we? LOL. So why worry if I don't edit so well and let the occasional misspelling and error in grammar, or just a wrong word, slip through. I suppose it might be a task to go back and reedit all of the posts and such from the past and not move forward to something else . . . blah of the blah by the way. What does any of these postings matter, they don't.

I got nothing more

April 20, 2011

Lost in
Boston
   


























Bop Bop.
   gotta rock all night
 and I'll be crazy.
 Bop Bop.
   took a walk
  to a mountain top
  in the moon.

 The sea
  far away
  rises clean
 beyond the bay.
  bop bop
  gotta rock.
  gotta rock.

 


 Venom of the rage of the sea
  spit out by a bad storm dream
    Saturday
   with a big wind snapping pine trees
      in half
  hurl it like a missle into the side of a church
   called heartache.

  pult that church down to build a new one
    that was a lot like the old one,
     the same one from before
   and I started going back there.

    The load is a lot lighter.
  It's easier to let it be real
   not worrying that maybe U don't feel it's real too.
    now that I know that you do
       it's all good.





Epics of the waterfront
  between the bar and the car
   Up there on the bluff
     during the storm
  if you know what to do
   to keep warm
     inside the nook
  almost a cave
     cliff face give way
  it could be a grave.
   nestled in
  cold wind licks
    pull the coat in
  tight to your hide
    shivvering
   in the burr of the Winter gale.
   Springtime gale.

    That light 
  from far away
   upon some knoll
  on some other bay
   like a mist that's burned off
 clear and in the light sail those fleets
    of meaning. . .

 In the orange fleeting light that fleet
    rushes off to meet
     the heartbreak of the many million man-year daze
  of port drinking in port with port wine.


This is the place where this poem ends.
 The drunk is in the cave upon the cliff
   far atop the port in the town where the bar's all closed
      on account of the gale.

  What next for our sleepy sudzzed up sojourner?