fished out of the garbage and repainted (thankyou mr. weeden. for not letting me throw this away.)

earlier in the year

of the dreams series,

Roger Dean,

this is not what it really looks like.

old things i found in sketchbooks, belonging to stories and paintings. number two:

Jack.

if there is a middle 

of nowhere,

knee-high indigo grass ripples there around the body of a boy

bent and perplexed in the face.

and one gloomy tree leans over

casts shadows over

sketches patters over

his gray complexion.

the grass shivers in a ravenous wind

stealing the red leaves from over his head

and throwing them into the 

white sky

imagining the earth turns over in its sleep,

disturbed maybe

little worms crawl away

and the beetles seek refuge in his straight black hair

fish swim away in his fool green eyes

a top hat sits on his chest

and his fingers drum abstractedly on its aged brim

slowly and softly decomposing

holes to china

I hate this story and the way it's so full of one name..

one long rabbit-trail I have been stuck in my entire life

growing pains

welcome to the future

all your friends have grown and gone,

time to get some taste

time to spend some cash, time to make a name

time to get a job and ride the train

time to love the things you hate

welcome to the future

this is all too strange to be real, too

real to be strange

and I fall asleep again and again

but I never wake up from this

I dream about time machines and ladders

that could stretch to you,

stretch far enough that I could get my life back.

When I wake up I'll find it, I know I will. Everything will be

just like it used to be,

when we were young and life was okay

we were okay.

June '08