The synthetic net holds the hill together Erosion control that's kept the shape if not the soil The caverns of nervetime are visable through the opening Insects and crumbly walls illuminated by phosforescent micro organisms glowing nuclear green in the dim pools. I pick at the edges, earth falling apart through my hands like lumps of sugar. The sinewy structure becomes thicker Ropes and strings weave and unravel in automatic rhythm.
The Big C can look a dream poacher back into his shirt. "We're old spiders here," he tells me. I ask him about the net. He points to a hill where the soil has been washed away. The fibers show through. "It is everywhere." It is the skeleton of the dream. If I could cut through it perhaps I could return to you in nervetime.
The coyotes have left pools of ink drip slowly, like cofee reflecting off the glassy surface, hard black, like obsidian, the wild eyes of the dream poachers as they gaze in, longinly looking for something.... I smell smoke Familiar from another time Aware but unaware as I travel. I have to meet you in nervetime.
The dream poachers collapse to the floor. Their eyes dart about wildly in confusion. One is moaning softly, "It is raining. raining coffee." "Come this way, while they are awake. We haven't much time." It is a long hallway, overgrown with velvety brambles. The walls are papered with purple moss. I walk on raw nerves. Birds live in the walls in nests of old medical journals. This finch is an expert on the extractions prepared from the kidneys of pigs. We travel along nervetime, sloshing through a stream of coffee. I am overwhelmed by an attack of anxious yawning. Orange smokerings burst from my mouth. My guide leans over me, pointing at my forehead, drops of coffee fall from his fingertips and drip to my skin. I blink in and out.
the coyotes howl, waking dream poachers suddenly shaking between the tangible sound and slipping dream reality the coyotes know their cries will scare the cowards away the dreams are their prey they need that fix I go to sleep with a heavy head wake hard unaware of the vibrations of nervetime that have transpired my coffee tastes bitter, not strong enough where will I find the librarian's egg? ---
Kitytyiti the dream poachers are unaware of the coyotes that watch them from the pools of ink. I am breathing green gases that vibrate and pulse in nervetime, the journey of a pulse. Kitytyiti they sip coffee heavily spiced with opium ash and plot crimes on hydroponic farm. crack open the librarian's egg, she has a message for you.