dreamscape Xtra short stories

welcome to dreamscape transition space. the written word as it has accumulated in my work. one long rolling recollective chronology, a big recall scene. it all started out within dreams. catching a memory and describing them in words before they disappeared. soon, everything is a dream. one becomes a watcher, and so it is with Dreamscape Xtra short stories. the art of what I have seen and heard in words.

Red Mass

featuring His eminence the Archbishop of Philadelphia

At Peter and Paul cathedral, i was greeted by the archbishop himself at the end of a Red Mass dedicated to the philadelphia legal leaders. all of the city judges were in attendance, as was senator bob casey, obama supporter, the real reason for the shindig. the Red Mass was controversial and drew protesters earlier in the day. i learned this standing in front of the church after entering briefly to take a look around. the mass was in progress which i didn’t think was all that unusual. i did notice it was rather well attended and appeared to be mostly men in dark suits. i stepped back out to the sidewalk to take more pictures of the facade, camera in hand. this is where i was approached and asked by a gentleman having a smoke, if i was with the press. no, i casually replied. oh, i just wondered, we are not allowing any press today. the mass today is dedicated to senator casey and the judicial system. it’s controversial because senator casey is supporting barack obama. we had a large group of protesters out here today. really, is that so, no i’m not with the press, i’m just taking pictures of the church. the name of the church is saint peter and paul, correct, and i noticed that it was the archbishop saying mass. yes it is, you also might be interested to know at the end of the mass the archbishop greets everyone. i’m thinking to myself i should stick around for that and i did, stepping back into the church shortly thereafter and taking a pew in the back. i watched the mass finish up, then alter boys, attendant priests and the archbishop assemble for the procession down the center aisle. i look on from the last pew as the clergy and attendants walk toward me, immersed in a thick cloud of frankincense wafting through the air. the archbishop, followed by dozens of philadelphia judges in black robes filed past me. i joined the procession at an appropriate moment after the dark suits had passed. i waited patiently for my turn to be greeted by the archbishop who was completely disinterested and without eye contact. His eminence lightly shook my hand, not offering the ring to kiss. perhaps he’s been in the business to long or realized i wasn’t the type.

After that I saw Ben Franklin sitting in the center of the room watching all the pretty dancing girls.

rice mountain

the clans didn’t mix well, making no real effort to get along. all whispered put downs and territory bending, as if the right of dominance is assumed. queens are like that • there are no questions to be asked, assumptions made, orders are obeyed.  the prince aims to please but of course that was his downfall. the princess though kind, is all envy and mischief, offering invented dangers to the queen, distracting and angering the prince. tossing insults into the distance to amuse herself, though calling the sheriff would be a laugh. perhaps it was for a short time but eventually the walls of the castle came tumbling down. moving a mountain of rice with chop sticks one grain at a time.

That’s when we heard

on the tombstone L5

the highway was deserted, as usual.there hadn’t been anyone come this way since the last rain at least. could tell by the lack of tracks in the dust blown over the rough two lane as it snaked it’s way toward the caldera. news never did travel fast out here. pineapple express ponies was about as good as it got until radio took to the air and started telling stories about far off places. interesting to the imagination but that mattered little to the gas station nomads around here. a one pump town miles from nowhere that went dry during the second term of fdr, then just forgotten. it was sunday, a clear day so reception was better that usual. there’s no place to worship around here, folks keep that sort of thing to themselves anyway, so sitting in front of the station with an ear to the old rca tombstone 5t was a way to pass the time. that’s when we heard.

seat rage

Again and again another no show night drifting weightless without the dreams. rough plot outlines wiggle foreword and are snatched fresh and clean to build another out of body experience that never came back, It all vanished when a shwantz didn’t want to move his legs so I could take a seat in the crowded last car on the northbound 5:45, didn’t want to budge after a polite excuse me. i clipped the edge of his toe with my boot and he didn’t take it to well, started to create a little scene. a flash of temper so naturally i apologized but he wouldn’t let it go, wanted to keep it up. I looked at him and sat down anyway. I settled in, pulling out the forever war by joe haldeman from my pack and began to read.

apparently, that disturbed the his comfort level. silently seething until finally boiling over in a fit of seat rage, jumping up trying to wrestle his way out of the seat, tripping into the aisle. passengers were aghast, wondering what the commotion was about. i stretched out my legs and put my pack on the newly vacant seat, and got back to the forever war.

the walls

dragging a road worn suitcase of problems up the stairs. each step a life time of heavy hurt and pain. insomnia waits patiently in the room registered to a man returning. the murphy bed thuds to the floor in a puff of musty dust devils and bed bugs gathering for a meal. the floor boards creak and moan. no more anxious pacing, boozy adulterous dancing until dawn when furious husbands find what they are looking for and crash through doors, smash lamps and furniture, break windows. hot for manslaughter or murder in the first. everything and everybody has passed through this room at one time or another. don’t wake up the walls, they like to talk and it takes years for them to shut up.

same time tomorrow

It’s always something with the trains, crossing the tracks somehow on the wrong side of them. ahead was a small wooden station house with washed out pale green paint peeling from years of weather and sun. the interior was an eastern block throw back with more peeling paint and a dingy heavily varnished wooden floor. the station master sat low behind thick oily yellowed glass. it looked as if the room had been filled with cigarette smoke for the past forty years. the windows had never been opened. he was probably in his early sixties and wore rectangular spectacles that rested on the bridge of his nose. he peered over the top of them with a half smile half smirk as i stepped up to purchase a ticket. there was that urgency again, the feeling swelling inside that time was running out. through the lower corner of a small window the train could be seen pulling into the station. a woman stood behind me whispering into my ear to hurry as i pushed a twenty dollar bill through the small opening at the bottom of the glass. the man collected the bill, then holding the money up to examine it, as if seeing this particular denomination for the first time in his life. with practiced slow motion gestures he began to count out the change for the fare, all in old soft one dollar bills. a fluffy stack piled up in the tiny opening. quickly snatching the wad of wrinkled bills and stuffing them into a side pocket, hoping to make a dash for the train, the station man looked up with a satisfied expression of accomplishment, knowing he had done well, playing the game as always. an expert at intentionally allowing the train to pull away without the passengers. after all, that was his job, the part he enjoyed most of all. looking away he casually reached to light up another cigarette, then pulled down the window shade. next train, same time tomorrow,

the host

the cupboard was bare. there was no cupboard. there was no kitchen. there was no house. there were no individuals. only the swarm and the hives. all needs were determined planned provided nurtured observed selected chosen by the host. the host was the savior. the provider, the giver, the taker. the punisher, the host was all. the host was everything. the host was everything there ever could be. the host was a machine. the machine was broken. 

Cut

there’s usually not as much to tell during the evening shift transition. maybe an email. that one over there in the full length fur coat tossing her hair back. should have been an actress, certainly has the looks, the bone structure, the dramatic flair. perhaps she is between productions, reading scripts for parts she will never get. no longer young, hollywood the cruel beast. at the awkward stage in her career when the only offers are for the mother or grandmother. all supporting or walk on roles never the lead, yet what thoughtful dignity she maintains as the director calls cut. the audition is over. the curtain closes. the director falls to his knees weeping.

rapture insurance

hoping for a replay, there was no such luck, they all ran for the exits the moment it was announced. it wasn’t a surprise but even so it was a shock to the system. the entire system. it wasn’t exactly something that you planned for. after all where does one go for rapture insurance. all anyone heard was the middle aged guy with long gray hair standing in the middle of the street shouting at the top of his lungs for the angels to make themselves known. jesus would be arriving shortly. who pays attention to that stuff. perhaps a note of sympathy and wonder about what had occurred to snap the mind of this man so far outside the morning rush hour. then compelling him to deliver advance arrival announcements to prepare for supernatural beings crossing over from another dimension. generally everyone is looking for a cup of hot coffee or dragging on that last cigarette just trying to get to work on time.  not this guy. there’s something bigger in the works. how come he’s the only one that knows what’s going down. soon, like before lunch, today. it’s like the ultimate inside trade. a real tip, a sure bet at the racetrack. should have been paying attention when the entire sky ripped wide open like zipper. looks like the angels are here.

oh my

hey you, yeah you in the iridescent green pinstripe suit. there’s been some trouble around here. seen anything unusual, strangers acting weird or wired, runaway porn hounds chasing raccoon herds up and down the choir steps over at saint dominatrica of the  immaculate appendage. you don’t seem to be the talkative type. I’m sure you know more than you’re lettin’ on. tell you what, let me buy you a cup of coffee. there’s a little joint just opened up the street. green pinstripe suit man dipped a finger and thumb into his left vest pocket and pulled out a gold watch. the cover was engraved with the zodiac, he flipped it open and whispered, I’ll give you twenty minutes.

the coffee shop walls were painted black, accented with pink cornician reed molding around the door and front window. dozens of milagro crosses hung on the wall opposite the narrow black and white tile counter. nine classic red topped swivel seats were stationed like chrome mushrooms. three of nine were occupied.

perched on the first seat next to the huge wells fargo antique brass cash register sat bando the clown looking into a hand mirror fussing with his makeup. next to him oxmo paldiver sat hunched over sniffing at his armpits and blowing caca breath into his cupped hand, not to take a measure of how offensive his lack of hygiene may be to others nearby but because he loves the cultivated sour smell of himself. the way bacon crisping in the frying pan lets the family know  breakfast is almost ready or it’s time to take out the garbage.

Bella tiptoe moved over a seat as oxmo continued to enjoy himself. shouting in that two pack a day voice of hers, maylene, why the hell do you let that foul creep in here. look honey, you know just as well as I do, not only is he the richest man in town, he owns the place. you’re just lucky he’s hard of hearing. now are you gonna order something or just sit and bitch. did you want pie for that hole of yours. always the fox looking dapper in his iridescent green pin striped suit, paddington gates, now seated next to Bella, gave a twist to his waxed dalini mustache, turned and asked miss tiptoe in a gin breathy whisper, if he could eat her out sometime. oh my, sounds delightful, I’m delicious too.

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sumo and bonkers

analog von dali pitched pennies off the alley wall in between sips of old granddad. the sun streaked down at a two o’clock angle cutting hard shadows around the loading docks and utility poles. onlookers sitting on greasy milk crates belched and dozed. sumo and bonkers passed a 40 ounce colt sipping in between roach drags on flattened sidewalk butts.

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analog von dali

and then analog vondali laid his head down on the milky way bar and just stared off into space, the Grin finally shook him out of it a couple of hours later. asked him what he wanted to drink.

10913

fluffer bunnies

hipster santa ran off with the hostess and left the party guests wondering if there will ever be a next time, one by one the presents began to disappear. arrangements were being made for sleepovers and naughty nick knack games to be played on the down low. the diamond quest sisters took their pick of the skin goodies and cabbed it back to the mansion. everybody with a sweet tooth made their way to lick the whip for blue flame cognac and chocolate fluffer bunnies. some were converted, others left on the next flight out, never to be seen again.

12613

hot lips

vacation in the stormy city, passed into the orbit room bar, a cozy place to be. once upon a time knockin’ back shots next to one girl in particular, the one who doesn’t have much to say except with her beauty queen eyes. she kept staring off into space, then turned and said to meet her out back in the alley after the show. a peppermint red oldsmobile 88 comes barreling down the alley. glass packs disturbing the peace. one hand on a suicide knob, a cowboy boot hits the brakes hard to a rock a bye baby stop. she reaches over and flips open the door. says get in. punches it to the floor, smokes the tires out into the street.

see that black bag there in the back seat baby doll, reach over and get it, now open it up and start counting. what’s this all about, thought we might be goin’ to get a burger or something at the all-nighter downtown. that’s what I like about you lover boy. never lookin’ for trouble, it just finds you. get countin’ handsome, I’ve got plans for you. looks like a hundred grand or so from what I can tell. oh yeah, that sounds just fine. what do you want to do now buttercup ? maybe you can just slow down up there on the other side of the tracks and I’ll hop out, let you be on your way.

I don’t think so hot lips, you’re with me now. hope you don’t mind saying goodbye to that town. 

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bacon and eggs

circles around the sun

poets

wiseguys

buttercup

looking back at tomorrow

fingerprints

bad recall

magic significant

call to honor

mood swings

fly crashing

night breeze

love beads

scripture

green dress

peach fuzz

big city

pepperoni ponies

high rollers

gripper the hippie

blam

naked and freezing

orange thumb

oddballs eat day old pizza on the side walk bench over on premeth avenue, popping anti-depressants handed out at the free clinic to keep the people inside their head from screaming at each other. pepperoni ponies trot along the curb leaping on the carousel one at a time, whispering to the mushrooms about how to be cool. don’t talk to the high rollers, they’ll take your life for a spin. here’s a napkin my one and only friend. wipe the tears from your eyes. well then, now tell me, how was your day.

say that again. gripper the hippie just passed by clutching a jug of cowboy juice. looked like david crosby from a distance, except he was riding a cow, taking notes on the shape of the clouds. totally sure of himself, never had a doubt in his life, until now.

d52614

the jumbo jet somersaulted, tumbling toward the earth tail over nose over tail over nose, settling light as a feather upside down onto an open field. not bad for an opening number.

here’s the deal

Have you heard of the sacred heart pizza committee development conference.? no. why is it called sacred heart pizza committee . because they aren’t round. any other questions. ?

yes, you in the olive green suit with peach colored shirt and pimento red tie, what’s on your mind.?

thank you, godfrey chestnut, food international taste society blog.

can you scaffold the crusting layers with veganomic cut away masking to help the implosion of the compound salt barrier.?

thank you, an excellent question god, which I would answer in this way, No. that’s impossible according duMerks 7th sauce law. the masking remains unchanged.

Next. how about the lady in the apple crisp tunic paired with splendid little lime green wedge pumps. what can I do for you.?

Thank you for noticing, cad man, but back to the sacred pizza. vesuvian oven master spencer bender wishes to know why the crust tastes worse than Karl Von Nails sky toast.

Now as you know, the crusting has been receiving some criticism recently, suggestive of the delorenzano yeast and flour wars on macron six. it is a factor. the textual integrity of the ingredient platform has been compromised. the pope continues to pray for rain.

Sweating it out

everybody is sweating it out. slurping up the morning news, figuring out how to cut the cake of the day. psychedelic boy drifts downstream through high power pooch walkers lined up waiting for blow. lilting left around the corner, charming his way into the out of their mind housewives hanging out, whispering offers of anal and a shave for a hundred flat. crazy how they just take a number as pointy headed black warrior plays scary vibe behind mirrored shades, probably a math major. not the same with the all lips project sister on night calls, still a wet mess turning tricks for the bored north shore barristers while the wives are out of town.

d8.11.10

guardian flank sweepers

the sad man with the angry wife listens to complaints about the hole in the ground that keeps digging itself deeper and deeper. not the person he thinks he is • identity theft from within. all the charm, all the smarts peel the image off, laid bare to the wind. something to break up the routine • an unannounced guardian show of force. the scavengers scatter in all directions, leaving everything behind. guardian flank sweepers gather up the remains, add it to the booty pile. left with nothing again, except for the hunger knot and bitter memories. czarina poses in head to toe pink. workshopping the new regal act, of course, the remainder hobble along, praying for the fall.

running out of clichés

is it falling off the horse and getting back or was it the wagon • forgot what time it is • drawing another blank • hitting another wall • running out of clichés • pick up the pieces • running scared • flip the bird • what’s the word • shoot the breeze • walk the plank • doing the dance • take a chance • tip of the hat • the grass is greener on the other side of the hill • don’t cry over spilt milk • cry me a river • cry baby cry • let me take you higher • honey don’t • let your freak flag fly • are you experienced • walk a mile in another man’s shoes • keep on keepin’ on • here’s looking up your old address • should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind • a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush • oh say can you see • helter skelter • she’ll be coming around the mountain when she comes • gimme shelter • mary mary quite contrary • how does your garden grow • humpty dumpty sat on a wall • pink floyd built one • thou shalt not take the name of thy lord god in vain • although nothing will happen if you do • thou shalt not kill is another matter • many rivers to cross • twinkle twinkle little star • don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today • just scratched the surface • hickory dickory dock the mouse ran up the clock • here we go round the mulberry bush • slipperier than a greased pig • what’s good for the goose is good for the gander • to many cooks in the kitchen spoils the broth • run like a rabbit • shoot for the moon • the early bird catches the worm • here we go again • don’t forget it’s pearl harbor day • enough already • what’s for breakfast • tacos • amigo.

d12.7.14

gibson shacks

talk about the golden bridge • set across the bay • primer rust red • bolts as big as ham fists • shanty town full of gibson shacks • mother boards • tarpaper • bamboo • wind ripped canvas sails flapping strung with xmas lights • punk shock • tiny dead ramone santeria shrines lit by votive candle clusters protected from the wind in shoe boxes and orange crates • rock crashed hulls slung like hammocks beneath pock gullied concrete slabs • anchor chained to hulking steel cross beams • all good and homey if you don’t look down • haphazard stacks of rusted appliances welded into a borgian coo coo nest • mated and spiked with spears of rebar.

D12.08.14

Overlords

delighted to meet you • the overlords will judge you shortly • assign you to a life station • fill you with happiness products to ease the pain • in the meantime • browse the pasture options.

D12.18.14

time to wake up

laying there • flipping through everything you can possibly think of and realizing it’s all been written into a screenplay by somebody living the good life in malibu or a wretched one in west hollywood • who thought of it first • pitched it to the bigs • who could care less • rejected it as quaint • a fever dream • small minded box office trash with no possibility of becoming a cult favorite • just a ramble of words • one after the other • droning on and on • wait wait waiting outside heaven’s gate • snobby angels eyeing the crowd like studio 54 was just a warm-up act • sorry the wait is forever • we thought of that already • nope • then the sickest riposte of any generation • been there done that • may pointed bamboo shives be hammered under your toenails for such an utterance • honey • time to wake up • the show must go on.

D12.21.2014 Sunday

mayor of Lilliput

godzilla stormed out of the house • reeking havoc • calling everybody in sight schoolyard names • stomping out a tantrum bender • because the little people ran out of food • who the hell was that woman trying to saw my head open • ah • come to think of it • the mayor of lilliput • that gnarly ghoul • her breath even smelled bad in a dream • standing over me trying to saw lines into my skull • god damn that hurts • asked why she doesn’t just use a pencil • if she wants to measure the distance between two points • what’s she looking for inside my head • perhaps she knows I don’t like her •

06.10.2014