Somewhere in the music night of dreams and silent crackers,
I got to tell you that I'm not at all sure.

But Noah, my little brother.
Sarah and Joseph dreaming.
Rachel with all your diamonds.
Patty, in the midnight hour.
Carolyn, the midwife mystic.
Rick, who grins a space dream.
Ed Ankrom, my astral tripping soul brother.
Donnie, the doubting Thomas.
Jean, with the energy of birth flowing.
James Watson, who indulged me a 2 am escape from the sheriff.
An insane night where two brothers relate to the lost and
mad world we all live in.
Dennis Ogle, who wanders off into his own world looking so clean.
Francis, I see the wisdom but not the self control to use it.
The gray in your eyes reveal the trouble in your heart.
Yes! Sarah, I love my sister.
So clean and pure.
Into the midnight dreams of being straight and up front.

Voices. I hear music!
It's not angels. It's memories.
I've got my dreams.
The past of a poet.
Friends who crawled under bushes at 2 am
Half way home from the Yard Arm.

Sarah, you're only 8 years old.
The world can wait.
I hold you in my arms. My sweet sister.

I don't dream anymore.
I'm only at war.
I've got no words to play.
Make me hold these voices.
The sounds are high pitched.
Rock and roll too fast.
I don't worry anymore.
I've got my socks all darned.
I've got my dreams all mended.
I'm into the voices of war.
War of the rising signs.
War of the ethereal spirit.
War of the communication gap.
Silent patches of snow and rain.
Hold me in your arms tonight.

Patty, the tribe still remembers.
Even when we die and return, we remember.
Even when we end up in this skin.

This and dreams of another time I vaguely recall.
I pass them on to you.
Patty, the laws have changed.
New Age. New Energy.
I love you.
It means the same.
The Creator remembers to keep it straight.
Love never changes.
Faith still holds the mountains.
From the top I can see you.
You are in the valley.
Golden and beautiful.
Working in the sun.
Full breasted and free.
I love you.
O Siren.
Ocean of my dreams.

I can't waste my life.
Hold me to these words.
Wise men may die but lovers stand reborn.
This life isn't ugly.
This dream isn't quite true.
It doesn't capture the vivid intensity of reality.

Dreams and voices.
They fill my music.
Rushing ahead so fast.
The sun sears my retina dreams.
Yoga and the wise man.
My life in a wave length.
I've waited this long.

But this is only an introduction to the diamonds in your hair,
and the music in your life.
Hold them. Share them.
Love me tonight.
Ho!
Oliver Loveday © 3/13/80/2 am EST
These rays wash us clean like the spring rays wash off the crazy
clean pure outrageous energy of winter.
This is spring.
New Year. New Age.
Our numbers lie like apples.
We manage to hang on the tree all winter.
Rotten to the core.
We shelter the energy of the seed.
The Bardo--living vibratory.
It slams into this sun.
We twist into a new skin.
March into new dreams. New Waves.
Our magic is different.
The eye is quicker then the mind.
The dream is quicker that the materia.
But that is coming in too.

Our solo cuts across the stars.
Raging Mars music.
Saturn.
We all know this but I'll say it anyway.
Saturn doesn't limit or restrict, it pulls the wave into a curve.
A circle is eternal.

We jump up from dreams of Atlantis.
This is all new.
New robes. New rules.
Breath in with faith.
Bliss out and work harder.
Atlantis sits at the ocean's bottom sending out her message.
We remember, if only to forget again.
But we don't. This is still now.
No other time. Same dream. Same space.
The dream creates new angles.

Somewhere.
Poor Valley.
Clinch Mountain Range.
Mountain Valley/War Creek.
Copper Ridge.
Pumpkin Valley.
Lonesome Pine Trail.
Beech Hill.
Stanley Valley. Dry Valley.
The East Pumpkin Valley Light.
Dean Hollow. Flea Hollow.
The light washes us clean.
We dream raw sex.
Deva, the landscape artist.
Deva, the dreamer.
We're all the same.
We chant. We get cosmic. Space out.
Tongues speak. The gap is growing closed.
For once we are doing it right.
Pass the potatoes.
Music and money.
I feel like doing yoga. Hatha.
The rock position is my favorite.
Lie flat on my back and try to remember what it is I'm doing.
I get better.
I fall asleep.
I get better.
Now I dream.
The rock. The center.

Dreams.
I get stuck on them.
The lessons they give me.
I'm open to all the millennia that pours in.
Dreams and Birds rising.
Flown.
Breath deep. Music.
The Bardo stone.
The Tao rock.
I recall each dream like a lesson at my desk.
There are many lives. Many lessons.
(pause)
I give thanks to each teacher across the millennia.
Thank you.
I pray that I am deserving.
I find joy in it all.
Bliss. I am yours.
The rays pour in.
Immersed.
White Heat.
Blue Star Magic.
Red Ruby Dreams.
Golden Cards.
Green Coins.
Violet Magic.
Pink Silence.
Crystal past the roses.
I itch in the vision.
We pray to Saint Germain.
Shine the pure light on us.
This is the Tribe.
In the middle.
And Love.
Ho!
Oliver Loveday © 3/24/80/11:30pm EST of celluloid film
Ships of energy sailing into our urinal waters.
Earthquakes and quadrant angels conspiring to steal our dream
vessels.
This room, this space, another mind.
Some dream of finding different waves in a place where the dust
floats before us.
Sunbeams. Rays. Seven.
In our red dreams we awaken in a place much like our own.
My place.
All places.
The landscape transforms.
The sky contains four moons.
They align.
Planets appear. Purple. Green.
An old teacher points out patterns and fields of energy.
Healing power.
Knowledge.
Observing transformations in the dream.
Where did the room...............?
Was there a room?.............and the film slides out of control.
Faster!
As slow as a monument toppling from the court square of Athens.
Athena.
My dream queen.

Marriage of the stone and grass.
Graves of wars and post-wars.
This radiation silence opens my paranoia.
Environmental hazards.
Waves of corporate drama.
We sleep in peace with three suns but the media drives us
to drink.
We are the media.
Mind control. Alcohol. Marijuana. The nose filters the ache
of cocaine.
Karl-Marx-types drift on and off the stage.
They repeat rhetoric aimed at fifteen year old virgins and
grandfathers at the same time.
Converging mentality. Mind control.
We don't breath out of rhythm.
The black guard answers dissenters with electro-shock.
The crazy protestors belong in a ward where they can be watched.
Black man. American Indian. Poor man.
Stay in your sweat job.
No time to think. Time...............
Time to take home the bacon.

This room grows full. Hiss of window.
Rising pools of LSD awareness.
Ships of dreams sailing in mental waters. Survival water.
Alcohol laden union. Virgins converging with dirty old men.
Bathroom halls and stone grass alignments. Pipe dreams.
Penis pipes of hashish.
All heroes walk this dream some type-written-coffee-break time.
I'd never make it if I didn't lie in bed until twelve noon.
Ignorance of madness.
I miss the madness of 2am howling down the streets of Knoxville
some nights.
Miss them and don't know it.
Soft moments of prayer for Indian-type tobacco spirits instead
of radioactive reincarnated drug users.
Dark nights when ganja was rolled tight and passed to the
spiritual waste land beside you.
No one walks these dreams alone in silence.
We're all in this together, spaced twenty light-years apart.
Rushing waves of sound energy.
Maintaining a degree of material sanity.
Oooooooom....we speak as if in confusion.
Male part:
I have too many waves of _______.....
This dark power magic blues spirit.
My woman done took my forty dollars.
Went down and got her hair fixed.
Magic spell on my mojo hand.
I'm going to make all you virgins dance.
My woman's out looking for stud meat.
I'm looking to drown in a lake of booze.

Female part:
Ships of ovary blood done sailed;
taken my spirit away.
I got ten thousand dreams a busting;
and ten hungry mouths to feed.
Desire is a wheat cake eat up too fast.
If it weren't for these house flies;
I'd go damn near insane.

At the edge of this absurd American drama are the patterns
of screen door flight.
The dust wanders in and settles on plastic Jesuses and praying
hands.
Holy books.
This and power company bills.
Sex and the life of a zero-shock cock roach in three acts of
sodomy. Father raping.
Pilfering the minds of the Athens rats.
Like paying $2431.00 to go to Italy to study raku pottery.
Like all the demons came home to perch on my eye lids.
Movie close ups of bed dream floppings and classical pipe dream
nightmares of chopping up apples that bleed aqua-blue
streaks of raw energy.
Somewhere in the ship there rides a mad captain.
There is a way of bringing security down to even the lowest.
All hands on deck.
Bring on the virgins.
Ho!
Oliver Loveday © 2//28/80/2am EST Leap Year Waxing.