-the dream ends and there isn't a room to wakeup in-

to be clear, I don't die in the dream.

I'm not running, nor am I falling.

you won't find me flying over the chicken coop in this one.

but the dream cascades through time

bypassing the capriciousness of Movements and piercing

the fabric of unrelenting Periods before settling into the neutral 

territory lurking between them.

but the dream has no mechanism beyond itself.

that is, the dream is substantive without

the physical properties to support its substance;

that is, it has no piston to drive it.

well, what I mean to say is: the dream

has its piston which drives it, sure,

and there's plenty to think about, and a lot to unpack when

the dream gives way to approaching consciousness.

but when the time comes, when the dream unrepentant, but yielding,

enters through the doorway of consciousness, rattling the bones

of its mechanism and fracturing sunrise, it'll be all right; for that’s the moment

I'll join the inhabitants of the physical world where nightmares exist.

                   Antoine's pride / Insurrection, 1/6/21

watching the goings on,

a student of the day's

comings and goings,

it swells from Antoine's

gassy belly, panting for a guy

he doesn’t know

who dwells in Antoine's

hometown and runs

a small Five & Dime, north end,

one room narrow at the beam,

item-bloated, sharp florescence,

high, pressed steel ceiling,––

(Antoine's been there)

it's the guy who

hopped a Greyhound heading

south to D.C. and then

by cell-of-wifey, spotted

tossing a smokey into the throat

of the Nation's Capitol

breached by like-minded

bellyachers

with boners for Nancy but

not in the good way.

day one