Kid Gloves, The HI-Jacking Failed.

I had another WWIII dream.

I was flying a helicopter around a crowded war zone
Dodging artillery and answering remedial math questions
all posed visually with no true answer

I had to abandon the helicopter I stole because I ran out of gas...
due to fucking around learning how to fly ..

Scrambling along charred remains, driven into corner after corner
and hysterical strangers
I am pressed against them
pressed against you and hiding

Delirious with Adrenaline

Sadly, armed with things that seem reasonable and sane.

I wake up Punching my throat
then take a deep breath and remember who I am
and it doesn't take long for me to feel the rage again.

Hello. I am calling from the United States.

My little brother took a knife to his throat and was found wandering the streets in Australia. He's in a Psychiatric Treatment Center. He told my mother she could tell me, because he figured he needed the Tough Love.

Paranoid Delusional Schizophrenia.

How proud am I that I called it months ago, but didn't know what to do about it because of a bunch of fucked up Logistics.


Not proud at all.
Never proud again.

Mexico invades Oz.

Last night, I had a fucked up dream.

I went to sleep early. I was stressed out.

I suffer from Sleep Paralysis. Look it up.


I live in the building that was the first school and hospital of this village. People always enter my house. Look at the ceiling, and talk about their depressing memories. All I see is repression.

The dream involved one hundred people moving through every room, who had ever lived or been here. I was like, Why the fuck are you in my house? They all had super cryptic answers. I was looking for someone to blame for dosing me with acid or to explain why I felt so out of control.

The phone rings in this chaos. My mother says, "I have been trying to reach you. Mexico is invading Australia, and a fleet of aircraft carriers are on their way to Alaska." The phone goes dead. Something about how my mother spoke to me, instantly damaged me forever (even in a dream). I know I will never speak to my mother again, and as I am thinking this, I am also making fun of my fatalistic interpretation of it all. Making fun in the way that line cooks fuck with waiters. Heavily laced.

I start throwing diapers and bottled water and salt and oregano and panties and medication and alcohol based hand sanitizers into a laundry bag. I hand Electra off (with a pain I have only known in horrifying dreams) to my dazed husband. I prepare for the destiny we all have been kicking across the fence. If you knew just a little bit about the relationships of man, you would know that leading is not a truly gratutitous affair. Leadership is something that only the truly lost endure.

Leading is all pain.

I step out onto the dark and wind ripped terrace, clutching my laundry bag of items that surely won't last more than a week... I remember my friend Fergie who was the child actor who rode a bicycle onto the set of "Red Dawn" and was catapulted into a life of conspiracy theory.... And then I look to the Southside. The normally black night is set on fire by the endless lights of approaching aircraft carriers.

They believe in themselves. They've got tools and a convoluted sense of self.

Heroes pull out.

I let them fuck their life away and I let them beat their fists on my chest so they can pretend to work out their hazy conflicts. And they don't hear me when I tell them how to get back in the saddle. They know I'll still help even if they never heard me. Plus, there's no horse.

Good for them. Here's to John Wayne.