The Dreamsong of J. Eustace Rockpruf

Last night I dreamt the world was real;
and not some garish carnival cut-out (paint all peeling)
that I stopped to take a picture with to impress my friends.
Gathering portent in the soil between my toes,
it vaulted high to link the stars in patterns of intimate expanse
momentum never cooling to a ceiling.

Then I awakened, once upon a time too few, almost close to feeling.
Whereupon I rolled over to gulp down the comforting familiarity
of an appetite suppressant, and some night-time, soothing, stuffy-head
so-you-can-sleep-without-dreaming medicine.

4 out of 5 doctors recommend morning mantras in the mirror:
I'ts all good -- I'm all right,
I'm all right -- it's all good.
(seems to work for Jerry Springer
and Mr. Rodger's Neighborhood... )

It is so out of fashion ,
so they are furtive and few...
Those who lie awake long past midnight
in meadows drenched with moonlight
dreaming feverishly of faerie dances
and praying fervently
for something worth the while
something worth this swollen, dislocated while

Down at the Canyon Hills Leper Club
the women come and go
lamenting Princess Di
recycling Oprah's latest show

Meanwhile,
with white-knuckled fists and bitten-bloody lips,
as a current boils a circuit through these veins
blue and red
blue and red and back again --
blood, tears, and breath storm the languid air and
beg the question...
beg the question I fear to form,
for all it might tear--
out and away from me

(what is the fair market value?)
The Nasdaq closed up one tenth of a point today
First Quarter reports are in: Inflation skyrockets

The market is bull --
advertising precious metals and selling chickenshit.
Is there enough gold to back the currency?
Conventional wisdom as plentiful as saltwater,
but every drop mocks my thirst
and bends me to the rhythmic spasm of chronic dry heaves.
Is there any fire left in heaven?
We're overdue, long overdue for a sacrifice.
Ole'

one day only - biggest clearance sale in our history

Here at the Supermarket of Ideas
Opinions are cheap enough
every Tom, Dick, and Mary can afford
a pair, or more.
One for every day of the week,
custom designed, tailor made, celebrity endorsed,
faux deluxe, shipped next-day air.
But nothing in the catalogue
to compell me beyond the bounds of my incessant little circle
devouring my tail inside out.

Tastes great! (but) Less (than) Filling!

Your weather forecast for today:
storm watch is in effect for the valley
a high of 68 and an overnight low of 42

And so, and so alone and without fanfare
I stepped out into the interminable spare;
there -- under the magnified tightening of the sky,
upon the stage of the Theatre of Unbearable Itches --
there I challenged the Cyclone to a bout
to best-out-of-three Sumo death matches.
And the Lightning, I called him out:
"turn me to ashes!
if you can
If you dare."
But for all my bravado in this drama -- Full of Sound and Fury --
I got laid out limp like a wet sand bag
by the devastating right-hand
of a relentless silence.

OHHHH! Goldberg rocked his world on that one.
That was the piledriver from hell!

the horizon is split and tilted awry
as I wonder here below
what is there above my spackled ceiling?
what is there above the silica sky?
I think I would give my right arm, leg, and eye to know..
or would I?

And so here I lie,
outstretched on blistering sands
cradling an implacable wound
and pleading with the dark, heavy clouds,
"Don't pass me by!"

And I realize...
those who surface...
are frightfully exposed

There must be more to this Provincial life

A vulgar obesity constricts my pores
sealing my swollen senses shut.
Pollution Insulated,
I cannot hear the Cue; I cannot see the Signal.
If there was a Cue. If there is a Signal.

How loud and long can Eustace scream
'til fearsome Claws come ripping to tear away the scales?!
I need some pain,
A little less ease.
Come chip away, strip away,
till I limp away from that Embrace
alive
and fully feeling...
taking a stone for my pillow
and on the anvil of my coal-burnt tongue
testing the rhythm of a new name

We interrupt this program to bring you breaking news..

It's now long after the sun has set;
Under the weight of my bedroom ceiling I seethe
pinned upon my back,
The hounding pangs are phoenix fresh,
and I am torn in time to white-hot crystal rods
upon my mind's writhing flesh;
From somewhere deeper and lower than I know to regret
I burst -
a showering crimson birth in my inward eye;
with a silent shout that knows no bounds,
no social etiquette, no restraint or finish line --
to a little left of center of my pounding chest I crack
and blow my ceiling up on high.

A strange vigil this:
With my innards on desperate display as I wait
wild-eyed and gaping-wide,
for some sound that is not just another echo of my cry
echoing back
echoing back

Thank you for calling Psychic Friends Network,
we knew you were going to call.

Night looms in the valley of diffusion
down where the bloated Angel of Death makes his nightly rounds --
behind the shuttered Levelors
the glow of his flickering blue breath
dispersing Soma spurts of stereo-surround sound.
While I keep the watch, I cannot remote-control my shudders
or mute my longing to imbibe, to cuddle.
Oh my soothing sweet. Oh my pretty precious.
How engrossing your red hourglass belly;
we must couple, though it kills me.

Grab your partner, strike a pose
swing 'em round for another dose.

The ceiling lays low tonight,
blanketing the rooftops of the city
smug in the ether of it's own flatulence;
smothering the sound of hoofbeats drawing near--
perhaps the Four Horsemen approaching ..?
Or Paul Revere?

brian heflin
feb 2001