Excerpts from the Journal
July 2, 1995
...but telegrams from ghosts are unnerving...hard to somehow extract the essence [of the past] without ever wanting it back..
I shed bitter tears for ____ at the funeral Friday, went back to work, came home to crash, woke to screaming nightmares of his corpse pulling me up by the hair ...
mourning for the flame that burned so fitfully but so pure; I go in fear of the black hand that extinguished it….
After I ran away I dreamed
and dreamed of you dead
and now you are
buried in your overalls
buried in your overalls
laughing brown eyes blanks, rolled up in your head
ivory as unnumbered dice
the way the whiskey always made them
so dead for you is just another high...
July 5, 1995
Nearly a year on my new job. Slept too much. Crazy dreams.
of ______ once again, this time wearing another’s body, but retaining his own insane unfocused brown eyes, ranting at me, holding me by the shirt and shaking me, starting with
soft words, words that my new lover says to me,
[‘It will be better, it will all be better soon’]
but always that mad look increasing as I start to know, finally screaming at me;
what, I can’t tell,
because I too am screaming...denials, guttural cries of child's terror...is it his unforgiving ghost, coming to me in dreams, to finally show what was bleeding and real under the plastic wedding cake cover...
or guilt's last hidden gasp.
...the old dreams from when I left him, that I must fight his corpse--fattened in the otherworld, malignant and mad with unholy life...
now I dream it all again, the headstone so uneasy on the man I knew, careless kind, silly, ineffective, weak and
[full of the ability to destroy.]
what I feel I deserved to receive /
or what I actually / behind the masks / received…
it’s all too far gone from me now...
it's always sleeping beside me now
where I'm afraid I'll have to look at it,
don't make me touch it
turning turning in a winding sheet of
to look and see that those empty eyes
[there in the dark]
are staring back and I'm caught again
as of course they always are, and I always am….
Journal entries from 1995, revised and extensively messed with, March 2012
Poet Stu McPherson is running the show at the pub today, and his prompt is to explore the nightmare edge of our dreams. This is a bit of a departure for me, more prose than poetry, and taken from life ( or more accurately, death.) I've redacted names
|July 5 1995|
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