December 2012

last night i had a dream i was moving into a huge room in san francisco for 200 dollars, which is why even while dreaming i knew i was dreaming. i was planning to build giant bookcases and the previous tenant left because of loud gay sex in the parking lot below. one side of the room had a long narrow closet which i thought i should line with rhinestones and sleep in sometimes when i was sad and wanted to be inside a glittering cave.

• • •

most of my dream last night took place in this really tacky church of a unitarian universalist strain, and when i woke up i was convinced these churches existed (everything covered in carpet, vases of reeds turning into arches, gilt louis XIV chairs, decoupaged tables) it took me a good twenty minutes to realize that they’re just a reoccurring motif in my dreams, not IRL.

• • •

in my dream i was a poet and an amateur fortune teller

who drove a black racecar in a jacket studded

with the pins of failed states and the badges of dead cops

you were an experimental reality tv director

currently filming wild horses in their off time

edited to make them look drunk and anti social

dreamy 8mm footage of a pony sitting down

in a deep stream and pissing

we were falling in love by which i mean we were bitter

rivals, promiscuous, and writing anonymous bad reviews

of each other’s work on the internet

• • •

on trial as a member of Pussy Riot,

but it was a different band / US version

one of us was already in jail

i was being accused

of beating up this punk dude

(it was true, it was for revenge)

of having a history of extreme violence

footage of me breaking things

but i won; the judge was a poet / painter

who i developed a crush on

he gave a lecture afterwards

by making these incredible drawings on a

chalkboard, asked to borrow my pencil

but was disappointed it wasn’t a fancier one

pussy riot and friends snuck into a

buffet for library patrons to celebrate

and ate all this fairy food

paper thin star cookies

honey comb burritos

piled into a car with the band,

family, and poet crush

and my dad was driving and

tried to make a joke about Proust

• • •

breakup w/ a dream boyfriend who

is a total prick and real dumb

and happily console myself

by hooking up with a

series of beautiful and really cool women

in a castle where some kind of

art biennale is going on

i talk shit on some of the art

in a private rant to a lover, but someone

films it and the biennale ppl

decide i am an important art critic

but i roll with it because these

art ppl were a bunch of fascists

who were about to destroy

several of my friends’ works

so i convince them not to

and we scam them out of

a shitload of money instead