Bones for Crutches (Poetic Prose)

Last night I had a dream, and I said to it this morning, “Where did you come from?...” In that dream there was a toilet, and a long yellowish fat snake, the nature of it went unexplained, I flushed it down, a demon was someplace chewing gum, watching the final aspect of the dream wove with arms together. He wants me to be like Judas, sell out Christ, you see, there punishment is over, the shame and disgrace of it anyway, now they just walk about with no blood in the face, and their grace is all used up! But as for me, they want to drop me off a high building to see, if I break like glass. Man waits for judgments, demons, those prehistoric monsters, held together by dreams and twigs, and legends, and nightmares, live in their own backyard or try to possess another’s, their necks made of iron poles, swollen limbs, heavy teeth, dead weight. They know ugliness, their ugliness is a matter of custom, get use to it they say, and in time it will qualify as fine art. I’m not sure why Judas betrayed Jesus, or why the demons chose Satan, to God, other than dishonesty is forbidden in heaven; and it can’t be overlooked or forgotten, Christ didn’t die for them. So as far as Christ goes, they are in a world of lost connections, I know they keep saying “Listen! Listen!” and so much more, and humans listen, not Christ, he gives them no time—he knows they’re not worth it, so guess what, they come to us, in dreams, chewing gum situations, with thin veins and fork necks, and bare shoulders, and odd looking toes, red hooked noses, bleeding for attention, the person who keeps dropping off to sleep, hour after hour they can play games in his head, and they do just that, then he awakes, says like me, “Where did you come from?” It’s even dangerous in saying what I am saying, you spark the rooftop of their head, open doors, I think that is what Judas did; nothing more dangerous than your head in their hands, you’ll come out on crutches, those made from your own bones. There is no translating a demon’s dream, or nightmare, they are beggars chasing mice on rooftops for attention, the more you give them, the more valuable you become to them.

No: 2416 7-23-2008 (poetic prose)