in my dreams, there is death, often dismemberment, symbolic in far too many ways, a Houston, Texas, if you will. I am often the Täter, for some Good I rarely remember. I had been hunting, being hunted by, a small child, not unlike myself at that age - surely not out of kindergarten - but he was a gifted child, well suited to the games of death we played. There were others, for other reasons, I'm sure, but it was like every other dream. Until, it was you, standing over me with your Kitchen knife... The usual Righteous Indignation was as gone as gone, survival was trivial, unimportant in so many fucking ways, and I welcomed your knife, poisoned with so much forgiveness, right into my lungs! You won't believe me when I tell you - I did not die. Instead, daisies and echinachea, and Black Eyed Susans, and Sunflowers, and bonneted flowers of all sorts in blues and reds and yellows and pinks and purple and orange and so many more ... they all sprung to life, growing wildly and singing some ethereal hymn we could only hear from inside ourselves. the petals vibrated irrationally, falling into my gushing wound that did not feel painful in the least - rather an ecstasy, with violent convulsions in time with the petals. you were dressed in an incredible always changing dress - a spiritual technology, that was often a short black wide pleated skirt covering my nakedness below, and a red satin ribbon strapped dress filled with anger and regret, those blue Bryant College shorts of welcoming delights, topless, you stirred that knife around my chest and guts and down through my legs. The petals followed your knife until you were done, exhausted, where you collapsed into the petal filled hole in my chest, my guts, my legs, my feet ... I did not die, I transformed. I was not asleep long enough to find out what I might have transformed into.
