2001-08-01 - 11:20 p.m.

Places: My Mind

by Davey Louis Jones

And all the stories begin in the salmon-pink dawn. The dew seeping out like blood scabbed lesions cover my frigid nakedness. I crawl from my nest of softened mosses and decay-crusted leaves, the startling visions of the first lights, creeping through the drying fen, which surrounds the gut of boiling scum water, torments my reality. Over the tree-tressled hill crest the ambiguous disc rises, to color the scum water pea-green. I enter the mucky waters; and wade waist high, the algii clinging and the leeches swarming. I smear and scrape at the aching algii and putrid leeches, only to rub them deeper in my flesh. The brightening lights sheer straight through the corneas and retinas and rods and cones that allow me to watch my stumbling strut as I�

Run! Run! Run! I lunge committing my weight upon the high noon grass. Dozing naked, I wait for the sun shards to bleed my body, fury-clean, just like raw red meat. Here is where I lay and burn and peel.

The evening cool relaxes and soothes my red hot flesh. The blood that skeins my skin has long been coagulated and dried ochre red and sienna. The sky light fades and the prussian, cobalt blues seep and drip into the night. The last light slips away salmon-pink as the dawn before; Grave-sod black is the eventide of now: and the moistening showers begin. This rain plays the tell-tale calliope music of the mad marionette. And as usual the rain screams in delight.

Cycling back towards the salmon-pink dawn, I have set these moments aside for sleep. There will be no need to transcend reality and create an intercourse between the transcending and that which lies forward of myself. I willfully do not dream, for the need to dream while sleeping is satisfied: my waking hours are the dreams. I have no past; and all the realities clot and curdle into abysmal chaos.

This place of mine has changed me, wrecked me and thrown my tattered hull about. Although it has shown me around and escorted me to opportunities and pleasures, it has also provided a secret hell. This place of mine is symbolism and dreams, and reality and its outcries. Gradually becoming difficult to separate my memories and experiences as they diffuse and meld together, or are completely lost forever in the cracks and sieves of my mind. Seeking the balance I once wanted to have in my life is no longer important. Understanding what I have left of myself is all that I desire.

The torment which ravages me, as I create, is the toll expected of me by the bridge trolls, that litter the paths ahead. As new days break, the enmaddening light resurfaces, while sanity blurs in my way. I have become a confused circus poet, trying to explain and relate everything. In the finale of my performance though, I have accomplished more than just chaos, I have experienced many things, tragic and wonderful, and have realized that through these experiences I have come to understand myself. I do not regret any of the experiences or illusions my place has proffered, both beneficial and horrid. I will not make excuses for being what I am; for what I may become.

But only I relate to myself . . .

The End

Copyright 2001 by Davey Louis Jones. All rights reserved.

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