Lying on the westward side,
Frozen and steely
Listening to our leader
Till rage and unreason seem divine
I can’t recall the first four lines. I composed them all swift as thought in that space between waking and sleeping, this morning. I’ve already noticed that my mind is more fertile during that time, and that spiritual perception is heightened.
It makes me wonder who, and what, I really am? And what clogs it all up when I’m fully conscious?
The first lines, now lost, were something about a deserted stone church building in a Southwestern style, somewhere in a stubbly empty country place. It’s all come down to this place and this time of night, and odd place where two small armies just happened to meet because one was coming along more quickly than the other. A group of twenty-year-olds is prone, one group on each side of the church, on ground hardened by unseasonable cold, getting ready to attack one another for something that seemed desperately important earlier in the day. Everything before that is dream – a dream, if I recall, of a fiesta that grew ever more hilarious and colorful, where women vied for the distinction of having the best handmade-costume, while in otherwise deserted office buildings on either side of the street, ambitious young men drank percolated coffee from coporate mugs and plotted against one another and sent their younger sisters back and forth with messages.