Swim Lines

, word or two from something that I wrote before, emerging from a softening I can’t predict, another word, it comes from something daily, maybe on a paper I can see from out the corner of my eye, when I am at a corner of a street some words are giving me a current inside, from somewhere, I can feel them go inside, and I am expecting happiness of words,-. – or crying comes, - - words that are lines, with curls, dots and interruptions. They slip behind the eyes and whisper to the cerebellum with the hiss of a Cobra – softness of a floor you know and love, movement of the spirit overtop a poorly lit street that is long with turns, and at these turns the air is colder and there is a wind which is wound around the corner, and the dim light, dimmer. And, trucks are left where they have stalled on front lawns. Hubcaps are overgrown, or filled with rainwater – and ah, to love a place. To know, I will see those streets again, I will know the smell of those nights, the sound that is real, and the chatter I loved and used to listen to so well. A red hot wire mesh has made a sizzle and a smoky sound, and left its burn lined grid on top inside along my brain meat -, so as, I will not forget this perfectly located patchwork of collected senses and pictures. This can happen during abductions when we think we are dreaming. 

Snake Imprinted Brain Meat

Come to bite, as I saw it lunge once at a foot, with sound as nothing I imagined from the movies with surround sound, a flowing, pulsing HISS, and did that follow me, in Eastern Europe where they warned against my coming, from a death threat on a phone, or later will it follow me, that town or another in Western Europe, will it come like the European river tail….i drank then, from five sets of fangs and heart pushed blood from their headless bodies, and now it is, is it, they are following me – and, as I watched outside a snake stall they had hung one, and slit it lengthwise and its lungs and heart had been pulled out through the slit and hung against its side, lungs that filled and emptied of the air and heart that beat still, even pounding out its blood, and stood I with my snake hiss printed on my brain meat as this died.

And Then it Spun Around a Drain

I saw them once all curled together in a stone caldron, hissing, tightening in a layered mass I had seen before, but nightcrawlers then, inside a tin in a little dirt, to go with fishing, now these Cobras. And, I imagine now, there was a drain at the bottom of this caldron, and in the sleep, a single snake has grown and has on its sides fins make of scales and it has an underside like pearl. And the drain is a whirlpool, the snake, a Chinese dragon of the water, retaining its Cobra head and hood, having devoured its own second head, which was that of a bearded pig. And the serpent snake spun in circles around and around the whirlpool wall, as I in its center on a raft was kept within from escaping by this guard. I marveled at how living had become, that I spun between the mysterious sucking hole at the center, and the hungry and poisonous thing that was my halo.

Fall

We are riding a motorcycle in the mountains. Around a corner, a car has suddenly stopped short in front of us. And we swerve, but my knee catches on the rearend light of the car, both light and knee pop and I am thrown from the motorcycle, and over the edge of the road, which is a drop of several hundred feet. As I fall, I see a grandfather walking across a footbridge between two peeks. As I am about to pass him in my plunge, he stumbles and begins to fall off of the footbridge. As I pass him, I catch him by one of his rubber boots during his fall, and throw him back up onto the footbridge. My own descent slows, and I find I am rather flying upward instead of down, passing by from where I fell, and far away into the sky.