1.

It has been a long, fruitless, and exhaustive search. Finding the dreamer who is dreaming you is damned near impossible. He or she or it is in there somewhere. In where, exactly? In where is the birthplace of existential dilemmas and psychic wounds. In where is one of those placeless places. There are no maps for placeless places. I know, as I have roved and spelunked there for most of my waking life. In where might seem like kin to Nowhere at all, but it’s not that simple. Or it’s beyond simple, which makes it appear all the less simple. In there registers as liminal and locationless. Liminal can be a saving grace and a pain in the ass. So, yeah … trying to groove straight to the Source, where I will lay fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh eyes, multitudinous in their visioning, on the one who is dreaming me. The Original Dreamer, the O.G. Dreamer, the Wide Awake One, who is always dreaming, so is therefore dreamless.

2.

You

are but a thought

a stitch in a dream

the interstice between breaths.

Okay, then, if I accept and embrace my interstitial stitchiness, then why this all consuming need and hunger to find out who’s dreaming me? Why can’t I just be the silent stich and breath, free from the bings of pondering? I think this compulsion began when I became aware (more of a sneaking suspicion really) that I was being dreamed, that behind my life and mind and dreams was a dreamer, and because I was being dreamed I was the progeny and product of real-life fiction. Or fiction in real-time. What I know about the O.G. Dreamer is that I know nothing, and I want to scream I don’t know until the world thrice over is unequivocally clear on what I don’t know.

3.

There’s something about a poem lending itself to the ineffable. Ineffable as in the fathomless and mysterious. Ineffable as in unfuckable. You could say the fathomless is unfuckable. Yet the cosmos is shapely and noir and so I am instantly seduced over and again. Black holes are the sexiest death-traps ever conceived. All this action, including me and everything I’m saying, cinematically takes place on a voided screen. The writhing squiggles you see are self-produced, amateur graffiti printed in shadow, and reflect nothing of primary or significant consequence. Little me dreaming little dreams, little me dreaming through the score and quarry of words. Scarry scarry stories buried beneath heart, in splinters and silvery shards, where is the balm, where is Gilead, where does it all hail from, this the beggar-core and hunger-cave in which we dwell—wanting, waiting, peaking, longing, shadowing, sounding off and on repeating endlessly like stray lights gathered as depleted fireflies over a slick dark puddle. What am I hoping for in this manic seeking? In words always reaching beyond themselves?

4.

I sit down and wonder about placeless places, non-specific locations, the Dreamer dreaming me … it is a way to pass the time. If time were passing, could be passed, over or under, this would be one way of doing it. My little dreams are the broken edges of spidery raindrops on a highway windshield. I slide away, an escapee, a word waiting to happen. Some days these days are everything. It is all a trap, all wish and bone and many tomorrows replicating themselves in counterfeit economy and surplus. Gone today, here tomorrow.

5.

I am trickle of saliva on the Great Dreamer’s mouth, hot homeless spittle contracting air, the tail-end thread of a wrinkle on the Great Dreamer’s perfect faceless face, a blank slate and a coin minted by eternity. I am unheard of and losing sleep, an insomniac pining for scissors, on this so-called journey. I name things. It helps. Or doesn’t.

6.

I am rowing

always

to never arrive

never to seek—

Neverland being another form of dreaming.

In other words—Better late than never.