nodded off for a minute. i dreamt of cable cars filled with miniature porcelin portraits- the kind the a woman might wear as a broach. they are taking them to the necropolis to mind the roads & everwhere someone is talking about a new kind of sawgrass. whenever i walk close to them their faces turn to skulls & they run away like children on halloween. outside the cable car, i see a boy trade his cow for 6 beans, but the beans are really wasps, & when he sows them in the ground a hive grows & a swarm blackens the sky. then its night, & the stars are imperfections on the thoraxes of the wasps reflecting the light. the stars wink out as their hive-sisters jealously guard the purity of their germ line. i hear myself thinking that; the purity of their germ line, & suddenly i'm thinking of survival of the fittest amongst hunter-killer algorithms.
then i'm awake & its the gingerbread house i'm used to, the closests still yawning back into crawlspaces i know lead to hallways. there are blue lights in the labyrinth but i don't hear anyone but me talking about wil-o-wisps. i'm the only one you'll hear say hejira & mean that long walk through the dark. oh what it used to be. every lifetime i'm just waiting for humankind to set one brick on top of another to make a better tower of babel. i've got my sohm gig going on, but thats the sort of gallows a boy strings up in the privacy of his own home.