Crack words in half and chuck the shells over your shoulder, into the
frankenstein mines! See the slags of slurry of silly mill pond
haberdashery! Whatevereggs. Break words in half and look for pearls.
Break words in half, chuck the sharpshells away, so as to avoid my
shellshock, and fry up whatever it is comes out. That's what's on my
mind this morning, clucking contents of broken wordeggs. Actually, my
brainpan today is teflon, and only words bounce off — I had to exert my
drill capabilities. My augering augury bores through the boring stone
and into surprising subterranean caverns containing partying aliens
and ridiculous evolution freaks and paradoxically large panoramae
with their own underground suns.
     A dream is a trip underground. Inground. I love dream physics —
you don't have to experience something to have experienced it. Your
locations morph one into the other, causing you to think you've
changed position. The clues of time and space cause you to assign
certain interpretations to it ("oh, I must've been a child then") based on
your daily ego and its official name and history.
     I shake off dreamwater every morning, dissolving it in lukewarm
coffee. I shake off paintcolors, smear them carefully on the unreal
page. Fingerpainting during the dreamwater semester. Draw your
finger across your dreams and see the prismatic universe of rainbow
underneath.