I was once subject to a dream
Recurring, yet always new
In a dark abandoned room, once bright
It appeared in a subjective view

Outside there stood a woman
Indistinguishable inside her hood
The face of a mirror, reflecting not me
But only the earth on which she stood

Sometimes at night, I chase her
Hoping her presence she’d construe
But, with my objects, I built each door
To lead into another room

She never returns to my dreams
For now she is the stars and moon
And every night, although it hurts
With my objects, I build another room

I was once subject to a dream
Recurring, yet always new
In a dark abandoned room, once bright
It appeared in a subjective view

Outside there stood a woman
Indistinguishable inside her hood
The face of a mirror, reflecting not me
But only the earth on which she stood

Sometimes at night, I chase her
Hoping her presence she’d construe
But, with my objects, I built each door
To lead into another room

She never returns to my dreams
For now she is the stars and moon
And every night, although it hurts
With my objects, I build another room

Once outside I light a smoke, “Marlboro No. 27”, and its tobacco is that which my brain might actually crave, wisp clouds pull depth from the blue and some water cascades down stairs leading to God—. No, only leading to Northrup but at least I’m looking and now I feel alive again, much less dead than this morning when upon waking I cursed the day. Next class is too close, too easy to find, too little time to waste walking and wishing I wasn’t going to class. Winter was a waste of time, for anyone looking for warmth, too few hours I spent sober, looking for warmth, and I find it here now in spring, far from it in fact, a tease of seasons and I’m already late for that class which was too close yet I found a longer way there, a longer way with time for more wishing, and another cigarette that I didn’t crave but had anyway. With more thoughts about winter and less about class I wish I had less to care about and someone to share that with, but all I have is the class I’ll walk to, and walk in late again. Stop and look around. I knew someone here, but not now, not this semester, it wasn’t spring then, or winter. It just was and I knew this class would be the same today as it was yesterday, but I still wish I wouldn’t have been here yesterday, but here today instead, but on time for once. But neither wish comes true and I sit in the back of the room and talk with a classmate and open the paper. Not reading, looking at lines of type on slimy paper that smear on my fingers, and the pictures in the paper that isn’t really all that important. I leave that classroom as I came in, sweaty and smelling of not spring but winter, where hot bodies warm hotter classrooms to the point of disgust. I walk home, in spring but not in rain, and not even in spring as I realize this can’t be true and isn’t. I’m thinking about too much and doing too little to make these thoughts stop, but it doesn’t bother me all the time, like now, but it bothers me in sleep. Or more it bothers me not in sleep, but in a struggle to sleep. A struggle last night I endured again, fighting fucked up dreams and uncomfortably I watched every hour pass. Until the day broke and I cursed its arrival again. Another Tuesday. Incredibly

We walk down streets
that bear mounds of ash

and wonder why we can’t see our feet,
or the black hole at the center of the town of ash.

It’s not as though we are strangers
to the mound of ash

spread in its ways, though at times I wonder why so
many distance themselves from these mounds of ash.

These days are nothing but the same feet walking between beams
coasting by houses and buildings standing stripped of their walls—to ash,

with no question or qualm,
and a precipitant [Bird] between the floorboards and the ivy.

At last on their way to sunny, cocktail decorated, ‘Some Spanish Island’ bliss, Ruby, Alice, and Veronica had only been on the plane for one hour (out of a twelve hour flight) when Alice got ‘airsick’ and threw up so much that the vomit-bag filled, and she had to ask for another one. Immediately following the ‘unsavory incident,’ the flight attendant had said with tight politeness, Alice had an irritatingly long stint in the bathroom.

Ruby and Veronica were pissed, needless to say. Although Alice insisted that it was just the turbulence making her sick, Veronica knew it was the small rainbow of pills she’d taken before they’d got on the flight, and then again after the fight had taken off. Fear of flights my ass, she thought with disdain, purposefully ignoring her vodka and sprite (the second one) sitting on the little fold down tray next to her little bag of pretzels. There was probably a hydrocodone in Alice’s mix too, because, Veronica remembered, benzodiazepines had never really upset Alice’s stomach, like they did hers. Thankfully Alice had soon retreated into a coma-like sleep, with Ruby dozing like a tired kitten between them. Ruby had an annoyingly remarkable ability to sleep on planes, no matter the circumstances. As soon as the girl sat down and fasted her seat belt she was out like a candle that caught a breeze, while beside her Veronica was ordering drinks and Alice was digging through her ‘medley’ pill bottle.

Veronica sighed and rubbed her eyes and wished for a cigarette. It was obviously very fucking necessary from them to always announce, “This is a non-smoking flight, so please refrain from smoking until you have left the aircraft.” As if there were ‘smoking flights’. Veronica declined to care that she was tip-tapping her fingers on the armrest. Then she paused. Are there smoking flights? Rich people planes, or something… Veronica chewed on her lower lip and wished fervently that (a) soon she would fall asleep for several blissful hours, (b) soon the waitress would bring her another drink or two, after which she would pass out, or (c) soon the plane would crash and she would be able to enjoy a crisp cigarette amongst the smoldering wreckage.

A. General Gonzales: The fact that the Constitution—
again, there’s no express grant of Habeas
in the Constitution—
there’s a prohibition against taking it away.
But um, there’s—
it’s never been the case.
I’m not aware of a Supreme—

The Arlen Specter: Now wait a minute, wait a minute.
The Constitution says
you can[no]t take it away
except in the case
of invasion or
rebellion.
Does[no]t that mean
you have the right
of Habeas Corpus?

A. General Gonzales: I meant by that comment that
the Constitution does[no]t say
every individual in the United States
or every citizen is hereby granted
or assured
the right of Habeas—

It does[no]t say that.

It simply says
that the right
of Habeas Corpus
shall not be suspended.

Constitution: Article 1, Section 9:
The Privilege of the Writ
of Habeas Corpus
shall not be suspended,
unless when in Cases
of Rebellion or Invasion
the public Safety may require it.

The Arlen Specter: You may be treading
on your interdiction
and violating
common sense,
Mr. Attorney General.

Students
Trapped
In dormitorial dreamworld
Chanting in pseudo-utopian bliss
Rolling stone mantra
Praying for chains to rot.

Workers
Trapped
In industrial nightmare
Sweating factorial frustration
Alienated confusion
Struggling for chains to break.

People
Trapped
In commoditic consumption
Purchasing profusely
Self-product
Hoping to someday buy chains.

Who: Leslie Adrienne Miller
What: The author discusses ‘The Resurrection Trade.’
When: Wednesday, March 28th, 7 pm.
Where: The Loft Literary Center (1011 Washington Ave S), FREE

Who: Anatoly Liberman
What: Time and Language
When: Thursday, March 29th, 4 pm.
Where: Nolte Center Lounge (U of M), FREE

Who: Michael Friedman; Anselm Hollo
What: Writers read from recent works.
When: Thursday, March 29th, 7:30 pm.
Where: Rogue Buddha Art Gallery (357 13th Ave NE, Mpls.), FREE

Who: Christopher Moore
What: The author discusses ‘You Suck.’
When: Friday, March 30th, 7 pm.
Where: Coffman Bookstore (U of M), FREE

Who: Shelia Bland; Pat Samples; Sandy Beach; Danielle Daniel; Heidi Arneson
What: Reading and story telling
When: Friday, March 30th, 7 pm.
Where: Amazon Bookstore (4755 Chicago Ave S, Mpls.), FREE

Who: Mentor Reading: Jim Moore
What: The poet reads from recent works with Heather Goodman; Nena Johansen.
When: Friday, March 30th, 7 pm.
Where: The Loft Literary Center, FREE

Who: Kim Harrison
What: The author discusses her writing.
When: Saturday, March 31st, 7 pm.
Where: The Loft Literary Center, FREE

Who: Jonathan Lethem
What: The author discusses ‘You Don’t Love Me Yet.’
When: Monday, April 2nd, 7 pm.
Where: Coffman Bookstore (U of M), FREE

I have melancholy tropical storms welling inside my liver.
There is a tidal wave of agony about to pour from my kidneys.
There is a blizzard of regret swirling behind my retinas.
There is a tornado of terrible wrecking my esophagus.
There is corrupt acid rain in my muscles.
The threat of loss is sleeting in my spleen.
Poverty precipitates up and down my spine.
There isn’t place enough to put all the pain in the world.
Within each organ we store our own, who is big enough to store it all?

I wish sometimes, just sometimes but still,
that I could erase it all.
Take this scrap piece of paper with
this drawing of a world upon it and crumple it in a ball.
Then start fresh with a new piece of land and a new drawing tool.
Where all our children will be numerous and beautiful,
the faults of the old world never appearing in them.
We will love all of them with all we have
and they will love us and each other.
There won’t be piercing loss
and the threat of loss won’t rear its ugly head.
Deaths will consist of joyous dances with
flowered robes and beautiful smells.
We will not mourn their passing but we will laugh
with them and remember with them to the very end.
Each hand of the dying will hold the hand of a loved one.
And we will warm their passing with our smiles
and the light reflecting off the few tears glistening in our eyes.
We’ll have the wisdom to realize that
God would not create us all so different
if he intended for us all to be the same.
Everything will be gentler because
beneath it all will be a strong foundation of unconditional love.
Friendships will have no expiration date.
There will be wanting.
There will be no greed.
We will all hope, all endure, and all save
each other together.