Significance

woke up i after deep & black sleep. remembered dreams, didn’t remember what they were. something important, but didn’t i know exactly what. a deep & black sleep. darkness like a goat-eye. something to do with importance. emphatically.

were i only to dive back into that ocean.

knew i my significance, wondered (abrupt) how many others would understand theirs. goddamn it, determined to find out. i threw on clothes, grabbed bent notepad & pen. began the walk to the ugly city.

on the way, saw i bicyclist, resting roadside, broken, litter-strewn.

 

excuse me.

bicyclist, annoyed. “yes?”

how significant are you?

“what?”

i said – how significant are—

“i heard what you said. what do you mean?”

exactly what i said.

“i don’t have time for this garbage.”

 

bicyclist took a swig of contaminated water, stood up, mounted rusted bicycle, & rode off swift. fine, then. i scribbled the brief exchange, continued i on my way.

at the edge of the city – the border of green & grey – came i across homeless woman, sitting in a pile of discarded trash bags, smoking pipe, foul-smelling thing. walked i up to her.

 

excu—

woman stood up quick, crashing about bags on pavement.

“are y’TALKING to me, y’dim-limbed nutjob?”

gods, such angry people. yes, i—

 

woman pulled massive hammer out of coat pocket & smashed me over the head. everything went black. deep.

 


 

woke up after a deep & black sleep. swimming in a sea of the black between galaxies being born. remembered i had dreams, but could not remember what they were. had i visions of a demonic goat, chewing. constantly chewing. dreams were something important. didn’t know exactly what. something to do with, i guessed, importance. stubborn.

i knew my significance. wondered i how many others would understand theirs. determined to find out. threw on some goddamn clothes, & grabbed notepad, runny pen. illegible scrawling on the first few pages of the notepad. must i have tried to write down my dreams. failed miserably. i flipped the pages toward the back of the pad, began the walk to the city.

on the way, i saw bicyclist, resting at the shattered roadside. had i brief flash of something, something, something, wasn’t sure what. something important. walked i up to bicyclist.

 

excuse me.

bicyclist threw me irritated “yes?”

how significant are you?

“um, what?”

i said – how significant are—

“i heard you, damn. what the hell did you mean by it?”

i mean, how significant are you?

“i don’t have time for this nonsense.”

 

bicyclist took swig of nasty-looking drink, rusted can. i hoped it would kill him one day. bicyclist stood up, mounted his apocalyptic bicycle, swiftly rode off.

scratched my head. i didn’t expect everyone to react easily to the question, but didn’t expect to be blown off like that. i wrote the brief exchange down, & continued on my way.

reached i the border of the city – the edges of cleanliness & decay – i came across homeless woman, sitting in pile of discarded newspapers, smoking cigar, disgusting-smelling thing. that sense of… something. deep & black. walked i up to her.

 

hi. excu—

woman quick stood, crashing about pages (scrawled) on asphalt.

“are y’SPEAKING to me, y’fragile-minded idiot?”

such untrusting people. well, yes, i—

 

woman pulled heavy wrench out of coat pocket. swung it at my head. a crack, & everything went immediately moonless night.

 


 

woke i up
after a…
i am sure, not.

there was something black. deep i was in it. i believe that i am in a dream. i am dreaming, bleeding.

there is a small goat doll sitting on a nightstand. watching me, twitching its beard.

on these surrounding, pulsating walls, ceiling of mold, dark symbols are scrawled. they are dancing, i think. would i to hear the music that they dance to. i only hear a rushing rushing rushing (fading) of the rivers in my veins.

there is only this room.

i know that the city, bicyclist, woman vagrant – they never existed.

only this room.

there is something deep & black outside.

all of this has no more significance
than the pain at the back of my head,
the patterns
of the growing cracks in my skull.

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