Dream: boxing day > Dec 27th // poem // found #0003382554

Very strange one. Slept the whole night through to the next morning, this morning. Fell asleep again for a 1 Hour sprint of pure dreams:

A huge, cavernous machine space.  Halls and whole canyons of metal, pipes, and machinery. Within the dream another seems to be happening. Or the other participants in the dream are also dreaming, and I can see what they are seeing, almost like a whole visible thought-bubble. This process seems to be managed with a device called a ‘harness’. There’s only a certain number of these and they are lowered down to us on the lower levels of the caverns on long spools of wire with a primitive pulley system. The rest of the time, when not viewing the echoes of each other’s dreams, we’re connecting up old batteries to the lead wires of weak lamps to see which still have a charge in them.

Myself and another go to collect a harness that has been sent back to us after it has been repaired. My companion is a massive ogre like person wrapped in belts. In order to do this he and I scale a sloping wall by the cables and pipes hanging off it until we can climb up onto a plateau over a chasm by a narrow catwalk. Above us, the newly restored harness is on it’s way down by a coaxial cable tied in an elaborate knot. We seem to have arrived just on time.
We untie it and he asks me to apply the harness. He removes his wig, a bushy black Clark Kent wig, to reveal a system of grooves along his skull, plated in silvery metal. As I raise the harness over him, corrugated tendrils like tapered guitar strings snake out and slither smoothly into the grooves.

I found this on the overpass over yale road, the locks are all inscribed with little dedications to certain couples, usually in marker. “R+L4Evr” and so forth.


lovelocks II









Trippin around. Hitching rides out of the mall parking lot  to roll back to Vanshitty or Abbotsford:

New West from the TrainRosemont to highway





Maturing and living in a box of judgements. The box is built of more boxes, which each contain tiny auto-dioramas. The dioramas are built from carefully folded bristol board and paper. Animated with cogwheels and pinion racks to create full motion activity.

I’m certain there was a time when it was quiet outside.

Every tableau within is a bit different, but applies to the same person, and is immutably true. Inescapable.

An anchor’s claw dragging through the deep diatomaceous ooze on the ocean floor.

Before a thought there’s a tzimzum. The gap before the content of the thought. The space for a thought to exist, be it image, word, memory… The poetry will begin after the “//”

Sneeze out through your irises. Glassy exchange.

What if you hurt too much to use words? Words don’t lend themselves to a description of amputated horror. (See?) But put it all where? What do you call it? More people fall out of our world. Death blooms outwards. Fuck words. They’re all obsolete. We won’t need them soon. All communication will be managed by a pictorial language of brand recognition.

Lyrical time-travel. Guitar strings roll past the mind.

What if the heart is where your supply is? And maybe it could be. You would be GOOD and fucked then.
Rotting fish in holocaust piles along the river. Expired salmon that made it all the way back upstream to Chilliwack. Which in Sto:lo means “Place where you can’t paddle your canoe, you have to pole along the bottom.” Mine and Roy’s vomit of ricewine and hairspray sinking down between the round, smooth stones in the quarry pit we drink. Vomit on the stones, and spit and swear, holding one another up, too drunk and busted in half laughin’. That’s how to live, just spitting on the stones.

Crustacean, scuttlers on metal braces and mechanical tripods. Hoverers. Neurotic lingerers open their welcoming ranks. So we join arms like Sinatra and Novak and walk in amongst them. Backs slapped,


I’ve put out a few canvases and sketches over the last month or so but, I can’t get any good pictures of them right now. I’ll take a few in a couple days if I can get the right lighting in this cramped little space. Old food piled on Styrofoam meat trays coated in acrylics. Fruit platters streaked with watercolours and gouaches. Canvases piled up to the ceiling atop my desk and belongings. I have to hang a lightbulb from the ceiling


About autonodrom

25, male.
This entry was posted in Art, Autobiographical., Found, Poetry and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Dream: boxing day > Dec 27th // poem // found #0003382554

  1. angrygaijin says:

    A lot more interesting a dream than the one I had last night about attending a work party and helping clean up.

    I didn’t know that’s what Chilliwack meant. There are too many Sto:lo words I don’t know.

    Merry Christmas, man. Have a Happy New Year too. :)


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