Terrible dreams. Terrible because of their
vividness.

Have you ever met an ex-boyfriend? Up close?
I have only once, perhaps twice. It's never been too
big of a deal. I've always had the upper hand (if
there is an upper hand to be had).

But I just met her ex-boyfriend. Today. Tonight.
In my dream. It comes, perhaps, from the worrying.
Or from the staring at their old pictures on the damn inter-
net. Maybe a mixture of the two. But I know his
words, his thoughts, his face. So in my dream, i met
him as sure as the morning sunlight streams
through the folds in my blinds, into thin yellow
bars across my room.

(this is no time for poetry.)

I met him, we shook hands, and were sitting on the floor of his or
someone's apartment, with my girlfriend and her
silly best friend-- silly slut of a brunette girl, politically alright,
but of no use to the higher functions of the brain--...
and me, in my pretentiousness. Me in my sordid
pretentiousness immersed.

(I've always hated sentence reversal. it's not-- generally--
how we talk.)

Me immersed in my sordid pretentiousness.

(doesn't flow as well. ah, the eternal sacrifice).

We sat in a tight circle on the ground and he flayed me with questions jokingly, maybe, at first. But then it stung. And, beside me, my girlfriend laughed and her brown-haired friend laughed and said
the most ridiculous things.
I mean ridiculous. I looked at her
and said: "What are you talking about?"

But still, he persisted. "You know what your
girlfriend said to me? Actually told me--
he's not man enough for me."

The thing in your throat that only chooses to
reveal itself in heightened moments of pain,
confusion or self-doubt, at this
very moment,
drops.

"She told me, -- 'I don't think
I can do this -- I think I need you'."

Instantly it is clear to me that
I must leave. But i contemplate,
seriously, breaking something across
his face. And hitting him with the
broken remnants of whatever.

A coffee cup. An alarm clock.
But nothing seems solid enough.
And the girls would hold me back.

Also he is crazily tall, -- I know that
he is exactly 6'2"; he has told me,
online -- would probably
pummel me.

Then the thought: if there ever
was a time for physical violence,
sheer barbarity, that time is
now.

Or--

Or I could just leave.
Could just stand and leave, because
some things in this life
you have to take but others
you simply do not have to,
and walk out.

My girlfriend would-- might -- ought to --
race after me. And I could then
have a perfect moment of looking her
eye to eye (maybe my hand is grabbing
her wrist) and tell her: You can go straight to hell.

Thick froth of hatred succors the words, just like hatred
is supposed to sound.

I have been cheated on before. Always it hurts. Always it
third degree open wound in air burns.

. . . thoughts flow from the first.

Why didn't i
see this coming?

What reason did she give, for her
old break-up? Was it no better than
'because we don't live
in the same city anymore'?

Why did this have to happen,
to so utterly destroy me?
Just when I thought things
were looking
better.

So here are my options: Immediate violence,
but a quick odds estimate says
it won't end in my favor; I could say
**** you and walk out in a rage but that
feels very silly and not my style;
there is the standing up and dusting myself
off with dignity and then, as I'm out the door, spit venom at everyone in classic movie fashion; or else I could just
silently
escape--

all of these things present
themselves to me,

but it is,

after all,

only a dream.

And there is nothing
I can really do,
but wake
to a brittle and
nervous morning.

Wow.

I'll be back with more comments - after I've had a chance to read this over and over again. Powerful stuff. Reads like prose, but poetically - even though "this is no time for poetry".

quote:

---

So in my dream, i met
him as sure as the morning sunlight streams
through the folds in my blinds, into thin yellow
bars across my room.

(this is no time for poetry.)

I met him, we shook hands, and were sitting on the floor of his or
someone's apartment, with my girlfriend and her
silly best friend-- silly slut of a brunette girl, politically alright,
but of no use to the higher functions of the brain--...
and me, in my pretentiousness. Me in my sordid
pretentiousness immersed.

---

Great stuff!

-----

Well, you got secrets and scars you hide
Well, you got closets with bones inside
Well, that's ok baby, So do I
I won't criticize
Baby, I'll just share the ride

I was curious and pulled up your recent posts to QL. Just the last 10 posts you've made on QL revealed that you will post your own works and reply to your own works, but you don't ever share your wordsmithing on other folks' poetry/prose.

Post on a few other QLers' works and I'd be happy to share my thoughts on "Reflection." Consider: the one who gives, as well as receives, is more blessed... not just in writing, but in relationships.

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The opposite of joy is not sorrow. It is unbelief. ~ Leslie Weatherhead
Picture me with my ground teeth stalking joy--fully armed too, as it's a highly dangerous quest. ~ Flannery O'Connor