I don’t want to write about that dream, the one where my forehead was blown out, where the water made me the worst kind of demon-face creature around, worse than any clip I found on google image search. What is a demon anyhow? And this makes me think of the Alexie poem on Durante, and he can’t even finish writing the poem, and I think maybe you, too, will go look up what kinds of demons I’m describing, how they all have eyebrows that raise, horns on their heads, and skin stretched into folds upwards and back, revealing a hunger so profound that no food, no ideas, no love can heal it. It recoils from the chin back, the all knife blade. I don’t want to write about the dream that fits archetype, because I am one instance, not a cluster of thought. It was my human face post-exposion. But my forehead was blown out, there was a vacant fleshy mess where an third eye could have been. I was gremlin. I was greed. So desperate for god, for truth, for power, the drive had eaten my mind out. All meanwhile, swimming in a dreampool, tired from treading dreamwater. In astrology and all occultism, water is emotion. Rain clears asphalt, floods feed rice fields, reservoirs keep the people drinking, unless you live in LA, but that’s for another poem. More importantly, water wells up at the corner of our eyes the moments we finally let go. And I’ve been wanting so badly to let go, to be the unabashed imperfect but completely whole person I am. I have wanted to show up, to be vulnerable, to be wet. In the upwards tilt of my waking head I see the lonely sun, the stars I pray to, and the spirit you became when you died. I see you in my meditations, in that spot where my brows furrow. In this dream, a psychedelic world I couldn’t control, I became the monster I don’t want to write about. But here it is, I did.