Fever back up to 101 and my fever dream is thus: blind doctor- shaman searches the apartment for the tiny totem that will make me feel better. He touches every surface and inside every cup and jar and case and behind all objects as I shake with chills , waiting patiently. At one point he finds an acorn that Sylvie hid in a jar, and he considers it, then replaces it. He is endlessly searching, and never finds it.

Last night I had a dream where Zach Houston and I were standing on a street corner and a municipal car drove by quickly then abruptly stopped at a stop sign. The car dropped off a selection of tools that needed to be there. At the moment that the tools were dropped off, the car completely disappeared, popped out of the atmosphere exactly at the place where it parked. Zach and I were in shock. We turned to the left and a skinny brunette, a young girl wearing white pants acting very aristocratic brushing her hair--we ask her if she saw that. She has no idea what we are talking about and continues to act nonchalant. Zach and I both feel ourselves as "poets" and a conscience sinks in our throats signalling to us that this now marks us off as a species, with the capacity to see the evils of empire more than others because we have conditioned the capacity and the willingness to transform it, so we walked forward into the auspicious omens of the tech take over, understanding "our difference." ......Last night when I was walking to the reading at ATA I was taking in Valencia and the Buddhism and Cognitive Science conference I had been to the day before and asked myself what power of mind poets have that "techies" (scientists) don't? It was at that moment that a small old shaking woman with bloodshot eyes handed me a miniature pamphlet called "The Power of God."

Last night I had a dream I was a ghost, in Italy.

I was just in a plane crash in my dream. But I saw the earth from the window so not a usual plane. It was so serene I told my mother sitting next to me to sleep we would be home soon. Everyone seemed to be asleep and as I was drifting off there was suddenly the announcement that there was a fatal malfunctioning. The plane was going to crash and very quickly. To hold your loved ones and if you were an artist you'd probably cry. As I turned to my mother at the moment of death it gripped me so quickly I felt my mind dive through worlds.

I had a dream last night that I discovered an old lost book by Emily Dickinson, and the poems were long and wild and narrative and beautiful and I could barely breathe.

Last night I woke up in Dick Cheney's house and frantically ran through some desolate labyrinth of mud fields and construction zones wearing only a 1990's happy face tank top. I woke up again at 2 AM in my own room, cold sweat.

.

My home planet is undone by cataclysm. I am not certain of the root cause, but the planet no longer rotates, leaving it cold/dark on the one side and burned-beyond-life on the other. All of the remaining beings from the world are floating in a small clutch in space about a mile or two above the dark-side of the planet which is no longer a coherent ball, but more like chunks of mountain and valley compressed into an enormous-eroded fist. It looks like an ironstone version of a Lake Taihu stone set against deep space. Where there should be stars, there is only cosmic dust and gas reflecting the errant sun — the word ‘errant’ is spelled out before me in script, sparkler-style. A collective keening has just begun when I am pulled into shifting dimensions by a force that is amplified by a kind of ululating that breaks down the walls of space/time as we go. ‘She’ says, ‘We are late to the party.’

She and I apparate onto a barren plateau in a numinous dimension where a vast army is gathered. She introduces me to one of her lieutenants as ‘one of us.’ The lieutenant is an Aleut, his/her 8 sets of ears are half funnel-eared bat/half human. Without signal, the ‘collective’ begins a screaming/roar — the air shatters as the present disintegrates/burns away.

I am levitating up near the ceiling of an archaic, vaulted library — it appears to be carved out of the side of a mountain — I’m not yet quite sure which book I’ve been sent to retrieve.

.

1.

Forrest Gander, who is my former advisor, is looking at a shopping cart in a large parking lot. The front of the cart is facing him. There is a crowd around him, myself included. He is wearing an old school white nightgown that comes down to his ankles. He is psyching himself up for running and jumping (long ways) over the cart). He is barefoot. He runs a short distance and leaps up over the cart but his foot just barely touches the handle bar and he comes down on his hands and knees. Everyone rushes to help him up and I am moving his arm to get under him and lift. He was scratched up but fine. His eyes were huge like Montgomery Burns after his Friday night treatments on The Simpsons.

2. 

Another famous poet, who I won't name, is in what appears to be a high school hallway- very wide, etc. There is a man with a violin case (is there a violin in there? who knows) and this famous poet snatches the case, walks down the hall and slides the case into an office. "12000 of those things now."

She and I have some kind of side conversation but then we go and join a larger group. "It's about time I moved up in the conversation," she said to herself or me, maybe.

Dreamed that it was pitch dark and I was in bed with a poet. A chapbook rang, it was his cell phone. I woke him so he could take the call. He agreed to meet the woman on the other end, but this made him upset about money. He said he had to leave. I was glad to see him go. I didn't know what I was doing in bed with him anyhow.