The Secrets of Dreams

I prefer the fog to rain
Imagine –you know you can—
Where it is conversations take place.

[that was it!]
Genesis, creation, beginning.

Primo (if Jose were asked. He sells life insurance [to the dead]).

If it where whispered


Among a populace composed of dreams;
It would happen like:
A picnic by an excitedly bubbling spring;
Lounging on soft summer grass.

The sounds of love became the hosannas of nature.

It usually ends in a bed:
A hospital B
A cheap hotel E
A pickup truck D.

Gone now.

Vast expanses of nothing where a world once breathed, turned, existed.

Now tears

now pain
now resentment
now blame


About Universal Shift

I am the Sonata Unusual. I coat myself with some obtuse angle too far below zero to become any warmer. I create motivation, activate schemas, moisten gardens with scents of natural honeydew. Construct this meaning, you sleepy flock. Silence your singing—despairing contortions out of tune. Shatter the brittle butterfly glass with your hideous wailing. I am born of my god’s imagination. When I die I shall meet him. For there are many things to discuss over tea…or scotch.

Posted on November 30, 2011, in Author, Fiction, Philosophy, poetry, Religion and Spirituality, Spirituality, writing and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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