Dream Sequence in the Information Economy

You’re in a car on the other side of the city, late for the play, trying to get back before you miss your cue. Head full of botched lines, the wrong references. Do you have to read until you understand it? Are you finished if your eye encountered each word? What’s beside the point fazes and falters. Lies, definitions. Fences around what that means. Now you’re writing an image description of yourself. You didn’t ask to be the I. All you can do is track purchases. Look at manuals. Dwell in what seeps through. We all learned not to remember, as serious as survival. You had your part handed to you and refused it by forgetting to write down the date. The scripts wet. The scripts under the floorboard. Behind every door a new technology of violence. But there are places where the earth is just open wide. Blooms of exposed magma. The wrong epigraphs. The unknown math of deep-sea waves. Wouldn’t it be nice to be small and quiet? Impassable to language. A daytime moon’s private glow. Enough with the happening. Enough happening right now. You’re on in ten minutes. All your dead flower below, automatic. Your passion is to be in violent weather. To eat berries and misremember their red. Your passion is the wild lavender by the abandoned Wendy’s, shaking in the storm. You are beside yourself. You are beside the lavender.