my dreams come
from the life-force behind foul-mouth
as my foul-mouth utterances
come from before they had meaning to me.
they were enlivened without context.
my dreams had stardust
before coded in language as passing.
my dreams had spirit
before they had a mind-grip to hurl.
my dreams made me
before I had a molecular makeup.
my dreams gave me signature
somehow stunning, scribed from soul.
my dreams accepted this fallout
of matrix as mayhem,
this printout of a 3-d me as a literal lexicon
and me as my babble that litters
along a highway of inner drizzle
as spoken words that draw me to destiny.
my dreams claim for me
rights, and privilege,
as for my act-out entitlement.
but truly my dreams are just alphabet soup,
richly in the spoon of this moment,
honestly facing my reality broth residue
deeply asking for me . . .
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