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Art, On the road, Poetry anytime

Like a dream [she said]

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Literature, Poetry anytime

World, you’ve gone mad

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Artist spotlight, Excelente Musica

Musica! musica! musica!

Somewhere along the canal, kicking around with friends, I heard about this event. And although I was reluctant to peel myself away from the glittering evening, I was sure it’d be worth it. My friends were audiophiles. Fellow creatures of the night.

After navigating a series of passageways, we finally entered a red-walled room of pool tables and glowing glass bottles. I had a beer. My trusty camera was strapped around my neck.

These guys started to play:

More of their amazingly amazing music here: YouTube Channel

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Art, Poetry anytime

A story behind this one (is there?)

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Let me try to remember…
The story behind this one
I think it was another one of those wandering nights.
Cold enough for a jacket
For a shot of whiskey
or two
or two
(or three)
And alas I was still alone
But closer to the warmth I sought
Seriously, though. I’m trying to remember.
Seriously.
The streets were black
The sky was, too.
And these lights seemed extra bright
(as does everything when all else is black)
There were people around
(I swear it wasn’t a dream)
Guy selling flowers, desperate
French, something, something, ça va
Motorcycle
blaring
Notice me, notice me, I’m alive!
I’m ALIVE times two exhaust pipes
Times a boombox carried by the old homeless
greybeard in the crowd who goes unnoticed
I follow him
I follow him because he seems to be carving a path of his own
through this crowd of popped collars and
polished elbows
He’s trailing his unkempt, unwashed self
With invisible musical notes of thoughts and words
Unexpressed
The express delivery of himself
through a series of wires and electronics
Greasy hair and curls unfurled over that …
thing… he’s wearing….
Oh but the music plays
Don’t we all play?
Look at the night, look at the day
It goes and goes and goes
He’s no different
I’m no different
Let’s play
Let’s play
Let’s not fade.

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Art, Life and stuff

If money could talk

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Literature, Poetry anytime

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Dreams are interesting.

I had one last night.

I was in a large underground space with low ceilings and all women. In one room, mattresses were laid on the floor with night stands and alarm clocks next to them. In another, a couple of kegs. And finally, a room where everyone danced to music, sweating and celebrating.

It was something.

What they were celebrating I don’t know. As with most dreams, you don’t question this stuff. If you do, you might be having a lucid dream.

I just thought I was damn lucky and began dancing.

The women were great at dancing and smiling and existing, and I felt like I knew each one. And each one I thought maybe I’d kiss marry at the end of the song.

“They’re all so wonderful,” I said.

“What?” my current partner asked.

“I said you’re wonderful.”

Exhausted, I eventually walked back into the mattress room where some of the women prepared for bed.

I wasn’t done dancing, but those women looked wonderful too. And it seemed like a beautiful idea to lie down with one.

I backed up into the keg room, staring at both rooms at the same time—a kind of beer-soaked fork in the road where the music quieted just enough.

Then, one of the women emerged from the crowd. One whom I hadn’t seen yet. I thought maybe it weren’t even a real woman, but some sort of manifestation of my sub-conscience. All of my energy focused forward, twisting through the air, tangling with whatever twisted back. It was like falling into the Abyss; one that I didn’t mind losing myself to.

She hugged me and I don’t know why.

As with most dreams, you don’t question this stuff. If you do, you might—

I woke up.

I was back in my bedroom and pretty certain that it was reality.

“No, no, no.”

My bones were cold and I closed my eyes again, trying to fall back into that hug. It was hearty and full of love, and I had fallen asleep in all my comfort. And I think that’s why I woke up. I fell asleep in the dream.

I lie there, trying to dream, doing all the things we do to summon their return: picturing the images, synopsizing the fading plot, eyelids tightly closed.

I couldn’t tell what it was about the dream that made it a dream. At first I thought maybe it was the fact that there were a hundred beautiful women trapped in a basement with me. But then I realized that that’s not what I wanted to return to.

And before I knew it, there I was, back in those arms.

“Do you want to come home with me?” she asked.

As with most dreams, you don’t question this stuff.

Dreams are interesting

Aside