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The dream slapped me awake.  The same one where

Those harpies fly in circles above me, swooping down in turns at my head as I try to escape by digging earth.  It gets warmer as I go deeper.  It never gets deep enough so that they stop lunging, missing and taking only a chunk of hair or something.  I dig as fast as I can.  I find I am miles deep in not too much time.  And it’s hot but it’s a worse pain standing still.  I am nearing the core.  It reeks of rich sulfur and benzene so that my stomach disgorges itself violently.  It soaks into the dirt and is gone.  Here I decide to stop breathing.

Epiphany: My [dream] Self finds lungs a trivial matter.

I jab at one of them with the butt of the shovel and it squeals away.  My forward stroke lands the blade against hard rock.  A few more stabs break the shovel.  The omniscient self can pry rock with bare hands.  So I start & I throw the shards behind me.  This makes it harder for the fucking harpies, who have been drawing blood.  Steadily, I move rock and move down.

Epiphany: My [dream] Self is comprised of solid gold & diamonds.

Because the rocks are not many I soon hit a door set into them.  It does not look familiar to me.  There is no handle.  The wings flap audibly and then more so.  I kick the ground.  The door falls open.  I fall through and am suspended.  The core glows and fuses in front of me.  There is the sound of a large stone door closing behind me. I see where my vomit had gone and lower my head as it floats by.  The rest of my body is mostly useless.  There is some slow range of motion.  I use it to move toward the light.  I don’t burn; it feels like music.  It’s too bright—impossible to see.

Psychological Weakening

Novice Profile: San Valentino Vaffanculo

I’m still awake / brooding over coffee at four—
indulging the blackness; feeling the flow.

small longhand;
large shorthand;
page exchanges hands

It’s no good for reading;
the paper tears where the headboards
fucked and rumbled.

sip & more tears
(this time accidents)

I may have drunk myself, banged the wall too,
but my fist is free / busily scribbling this…
horse shit.

sipping & twitching
penciled face w/ strategic tears
more twitching and something goes
click

You know
It’s late
and I’m so sick
of all the
happy…
peppy…
people…

it is said within seven years

A person exists in a crowded room with every one else acquainted
and there are cocktails and it so endemic
that when that person is walked to another room;

which resembles the old one,
where they still serve glass
with tilted umbrella so it hides the face;

their bare walls do spin more easily—
if after all that—does (s)he as well?

Does old skin flay with it
the misery of nine rooms?