the blanket on a thread makes a bed where threadless threads pour from the head unless cut short the blanket ceases to omit the unfit feet that cry floor but cannot follow the thread through the open door in the bottomless bed of a threadless head
When I was older and lived on the anonymous side of town, I'd find a private hidden room in a forgotten building and simulate a multitude of escapes, but as the years grow younger, the perimeter shrinks. The resources dwindle. And the chair stiffens for the man made now of loose belts who begs, "Adorn me with one more place to dream of cages."
It’s 93 degrees Fahrenheit and climbing. The trail winds around another rock obstructing the view. What looms behind it blots out the trail underfoot. In a dream state, I stumble forward as the heat steals my stamina. But I’m not paying attention to my dehydrating state. I’m lost imagining about what looms around the next turn. A crow glides right over the crest and I see the feathers on its wings twitch in the wind. Only through its eyes do I see the folds of these mountains breaking into the wide desert beyond. I pass by another mound of scat – maybe the third or fourth one – full of juniper berries on the trail and think of what shaded spot the coyote must be panting in right now. Slipping by another rock face, I find a shallow cave with the shade I had yearned for seconds ago. And I sit there to stop the dizziness and sip a ration of water. There is a juniper tree with a burial mound at its feet. These rocks before me speak of Technicolor dreams with danger behind every turn in some old Western movie or the multitude of uses this place had for primitive fantasies and alien planets on film and through this sense of simulation I wonder how this place will seep into my dreams when I pass by the final obstruction of the day and fall to sleep like the crow cradled in the arms of its juniper tree or the coyote curled up in its stone womb.
For all my fellow insomniacs out there who are told that all you need is exercise and a good diet but still cannot find a good night’s rest, I offer you some softer terrain to think of as we try to drift off into that simulated flight. Waiting for dreams to spill into the basin, hear the distant soft tones of sleep approaching. Fly through this place where scarcity becomes abundance of spirit. Step toward the rigid lines that fall off gently into space. Let the anxious thoughts from daily life fall away like sand blowing over the ridge of a dune. And land on that clean plate of consciousness where you finally arrive at these restorative forms that were always there inside you waiting like the cool shadows of soft dunes.
Do you imagine terrain like me in order to help take the mind off of sleep while going to sleep? Well, I hope this helped someone. And now I’m signing off (3:03am) to do the same. Good night and sweet dreams.
hallways projecting
along
distant hills
tentacles
reaching
down
into
the
deep
s p a c e
into
and up
up
-ing
spiral
ways
path
-ed
wing
