Dreams Dreaming


I want my lines to be like dreams dreaming of dreams dreaming;

I want my lines to be like spider webs in all corners of the universe leading anywhere and everywhere, through cracks and crevices into the imagination;

I want my lines to be intrigues, colossal and without end, and an indictment of reality as they unfold;

And I want my lines to be a conspiracy of words, every word a collusion with all others;

And I want my lines to be death and resurrection, alive and dead at the same instant, suicidal and pregnant, pregnant and suicidal;

I want my lines to enclose the universe, one word meaning all words, all words reduced to one universal word;

I want my lines to be the song of songs, pitch perfect, a frequency divine;

I want my lines to take life away, then give it back, purified and refined;

I want my lines to be the flood that drowns all, the hurricane that uproots trees and shreds houses, the volcano that scorches the land, and then the gentle hand that dries tears and restores faith;

I want my lines to be the leaves on the trees, the grapes on the vines, the flowers in the meadows and on the mountains;  

I want my lines to be the moist black soil with the bones of the ancestors, the trickle of the stream, the burble of the brook, the crash of the waterfall, the thrashing of the seas;

Oh, and I want my lines to be the pure white clouds drifting across the bluest of blue skies ever seen;

I want my lines to be like first love, hearts beating, lips pressed, mouths mashing and eating each other, tongues exploring cavities like wet snakes in a swamp;

I want my lines to be like the sun exploding at noon and moonbeams rippling the waters of a lake, silvery fish rising to the surface, shimmering, diving, rising ...;

I want my lines to be innocent and shy, she lambs, but guilty of murder and great cruelty, blood between the teeth, running down the chin;

I want my lines to dig up the bones in the garden and confess to mass murder;

I want my lines to howl like the condemned and plead for mercy, mercy, mercy;

I want my lines to shed tears morning, night, and day;

And I want my lines to be happy and carefree and fetching as a young girl running through the fields, golden hair flowing behind her;

And I want my lines to tell the whole story from beginning to end, joy and madness, murder and gladness, to tell of things to be and things forgotten, of things that might have been and could still be, and of places unseen, not just under rocks or behind trees, and not just of Homo sapien hemorrhoids and Hawking's black holes and dark matter, no!;

I want my lines to stretch themselves out like serpents' tongues aglow in red light, penetrating the dark-blue places in the night sky till the stars spin out of control and the universe begins to contract, revealing essence of essence, and a new dream of a dream of a dream begins;

I want my lines to scream through all space and time until there is just my lines.		  
 
—Louis Martin