All posts tagged non serviam

Bus and Bill Dreams

by Drey on November 2, 2005 in Dreams with 2 Comments

In the dream I climbed aboard the bus-like supertransport. Imagine a combination triple-decker bus and high-speed train. As I walked down the aisle, trying to figure out where I’m supposed to sit, I peered out through the windows, hoping that perhaps She had changed her mind and will come with me to California. She hadn’t. As I near the back of the passenger area, I realized that there weren’t any assigned seats and I could sit wherever I want. There was a seat available next to a very lovely woman. I sat down next to her. She was completely enchanting. Her voice sounded normal, but when I asked her name, these otherworldly syllables came out, as though perhaps she were speaking Elvish. I asked her to spell her name because I didn’t quite get it. I leaned in, ear near her lip, and she spelled her name in letters that weren’t a part of any human language. I laughed, shrugging it off. She said she had an accent because she’s from the South. The dream shifted to us getting off the bus at some street corner in California.

A dream fragment: I am in the corridor of a military spaceship. I seem to be a female officer. While chaos and red lights and klaxxons surround me, I calmly crouch to access an ancient-looking computer terminal in the floor. At the command line I type in “Contact Adama”. Apparently I’ve just had my first Battlestar Galactica dream.

Another dream took place at a really lame high school party. Looked like it was in a YMCA or something. I sat down on a computer and visited my friend Bill’s site. I clicked on a link and a video started to play. It seemed like a strange personal ad, only it wasn’t for a dating service but for readers of Soldier of Fortune magazine or something similar. Like if you needed another commando for your team, you’d check out these ads. Anyhow, there was Bill, only it was this super-buff Rambo version of him. He had shaved his head and had tattoos around each now muscular arm. The video was a rapid-fire montage. He was doing all these funny poses, changing hats from this bike Nazi helmet to one of those hats you wear while exploring the Australian outback. He had a paintball gun in some of the shots. It was funny because it still looked like Bill, with his perpetually-quizzical expression only with a shaved head.

This is a Story No One Else Has Read

by Drey on June 19, 2003 in Geek with No comments

It transpires like this: My wife, Cathy, whom I have been married to for x number of years (x = heart memory, buried memory, misty and unaccounted for. The lost time blows over the plain of my inner world, leaving shadows like gaping mouths rolling ever closer.) decides that enough’s enough. She quit her job, she quit church and when that didn’t make her life better, she quit me. Continue reading →

Sisters of the Storm

by Drey on October 8, 2002 in Writing with No comments

I have met the love of my life, the girl of my dreams, and my soulmate.
They are three different women.
My love burned out my eyes as I watched her fall
I wandered, hands outstretched, in search of her in the country of jagged glass
Our greetings no longer Amiable, our stares strange,
I still remember the sweet blood on my cut hands, some of it was mine.

Another I met in an afternoon vision, folded note slipped sideways past my ribs,
Warning me of a red fire boiling in from the east.
My men barely had time to lash me to the mast
The last knot snug just as the golden voice rained aching over my heart.
I remained ever an island to her, she a sunset strangely settling in the east again.
A span of time and circumstances cut between us and I fear I cannot Bridge it.

My soulmate stirred beside me in sleep when our names were the alternating beats on a drumskin stretched between the teeth of gods hunkered in secret parley until one sneezed and one laughed and the skin snapped, a canvas whipping in the wind, paint crying over the map of all the child-smudged continents from where they would send for our varied parts only to scatter them over and over from the cliffs of the moon down to clay-slick river valleys where red monkeys sift the water for the syllables of the incantation that will make us whole.
Her voice is the sea foam call Beckoning Again from the cave where fire children raise pinky fingers to write messages in mercury. For her I will always answer, will always fly and fall, shudder and be still.

The three will never weave me a skein of promises, a blanket under which I can sleep untroubled
The three will never confer and trade secrets
The three will never compare their familiar bruises
But when they cry out from each horizon they are a chorus and their song finds a common center
They are the Sisters of the Storm and my oceans boil when they draw near.

On the Moon

by Drey on February 8, 2002 in Writing with No comments

Somewhere on the moon is a picnic basket.
You leaned against the black monolith
and I leaned against the crashed capsule.
We ate a meal of heart-shaped sandwiches.
It is so bright on the moon that your pupils turn to pinpricks
and the stars vanish.
So you can understand why it was hard to see you
against the monolith,
against the infinity draped along the lambent lunar curve.
We put on our star goggles to see clearer.
I showed you the fire the wise men followed.
You pointed out the comet that would boil away the oceans.
We watched the earth appear.
When I tried to put it in my pocket,
you stopped me,
saying it would only end up on my shoulders.
You gave me the mountains of Tibet, instead.
“Start small,” you said.
The line where the light side meets the dark is so distinct
it looks as though it were painted there
with the ashes of every hopeful campfire.
We danced back and forth through light and shadow
like a car weaving at high speed down a forgotten highway
where laws were too lazy to get up off the porch.
After a while I grew to love being dizzy with you.
On the moon, even the most serious things
weigh less than a golf ball.
In our hurry to catch the train back to Earth
we forgot the picnic basket
and several other heart-shaped things.
I still see them now and again, as though through a telescope.
The secret of the moon is that there is air there,
but only for a time.

My Voice

by Drey on February 8, 2002 in Writing with No comments

I will not apologize for the train wreck
You brought all that baggage
Now you sort through it
Because now I’m hunting for my voice, see
I got tired of all the parallels
So I uprooted tracks to grow ladders out from stairwells
My voice might be up here in these mountains
Echoing between griffons’ nests
Or nestling between a goddess’ breasts.
Goddess?
No, I’m getting confused again
Just two soft hills I passed when I used to take the train.
I will not apologize for stealing the bed sheets
You taught me to make a parachute just in case
When what I needed were sails to visit space in my starship
My voice twists tongues with the sun, hon
It don’t parlez vous you and your moon talk
So bright and quiet, but visited by shadow
You know, the dark train that could
But I should not concern myself with lunacy
While my voice still calls to me
From the lip of God’s coffee cup
Take a sip and stay up to see the griffons landing on the street with me
As I come flying home.

Storm

by Drey on August 20, 2001 in Life, Writing with No comments

I walked outside just in time to see the world ending.
My spirit clawed past my teeth to have a look around,
but I sucked it back in with a clatter of ribcage.
The parking lot desaturated, turning ashen as
a field of cottony nothing obscured the sky.
A new mountain range to the west lit up with last light
as Old Mother pulled down the shade and the horizon went out.
Near me
tin cans and good intentions danced on an invisible roulette wheel
before spilling out into the street
where the nervous cars shoved.
I thought of the things I had forgotten to do:
Write a poem, do the laundry,
tell someone that I loved her.
Just another storm over Albuquerque.

Phoenix

by Drey on August 13, 2001 in Writing with No comments

My heart is a phoenix with a lifespan of days.
Consumed by your midnight poetry,
It awakens again in a wide yellow bed
Near gentle pink curves:
A sleeping world softly rising and falling on the crests of dawn.

Homework Assignment

by Drey on August 1, 2001 in Geek with No comments

Here is your homework assignment.  You don’t need to do it all at once.  Perhaps just read the questions and think about them and discuss them at a later date. Continue reading →

Starting Over

by Drey on April 10, 2001 in Writing with No comments

I meet Her.

I enter the poetry scene at a slam at R.B. Winning Coffee Co.
Encounter Don McIver, Bob Reeves and Amy Mullin, but they don’t know who I am yet.