Dream of my mind

Last night I had my self a little dream. I was me. Yet I wasn't me. I walked into your house and let all your snakes go. I found your spider. 

A brown recluse. I let him rest in my hand. When I looked down he was gone. But he left a little of him self behind.

It didn't hurt, I kind of liked the was it felt. like I had no air.

It made me slow and sleepy. 

 I was not scared. 

Truth is I didn't let a spider bit me. I didn't welcome its kiss.

I would never knowing die by spider bit. 

It was nice I must say to give it and let go.

the cow is my mother

Great show of love mother.

Tell me more about your child hood. I want to hear about the ghost who hurt you. How no one not even your mother believed you. How he would come to you at night and pull your covers off and tell you nasty things. 

What did that little casper whisper in that little ear of yours? Did he tell you tails of his youth. About the ghost that fucked him over?

Did you ask him if that was why he made you do what you did? 

My mother was fourteen when she had walking into the living room of her parents house. Her blood followed her like a pet. Her shadow.

My grandfather would never talk about that night. How he had almost lost his daughter. They never got the shadow out of the rug.

what the cream gave me.

I'm 20 and last night we had a party. Like I always do I have way to much to drink, and I smoked most of my weed. I'm nude, and wish I could say that I had been undressed by some one hands other then my own. But I can't.

I'm nude, because last night I was to fucked up to dress my self. Rolling my self in a blanket, I walk in the my living room and sit on the floor. I do two things. First I finish my weed, and second I smoke a cigarette.

When did I become this?

       I am not the man that my mother raised me to be. 

       The cow is my mother, I suck from her tit.

Oh fuck I need some thing to make this taste get out of my mouth. To much IPA. 

I'm walking in to my room and grab my box nest to my bed, inside is a back up joint, three sugar cubes of LSD, and a glass bottle full of pills. I take the blue up. I think its an upper, I'll be ok if its a downer, I don't really care.

I have cuts on my left arm. I must have been upset last night.

I am not the man that my father raised me to be.

The bull is my sire, from his loins I was giving the wonderful gift of life.

A pound of flesh, from my left arm. With this pound I pay my deit. Bless you mother cow, father bull. I have payed deit. Now I ask of you, give me hope. Give me love. 

Mother cow, father bull, let me give me give up.

I'm still 20, but the week is not the same. I am the same. Once more I have fucked up. I let life get the best of me. 

Anger was the cause, not me. I could never be to blame for this. I'm a good kid, just having fun you know. My friend was the one who gave me the pills and my lover was the one the bottle of vodka. I can not be to blame for my actions, I am but my mothers son.

At sixteen I had came home to my mother. The ruby of Arizona. My giver of lifes milk. My mother had always been my joy. 

Some thing was wrong.

She had not slept in over a week, and her face was starting to show that. I think my mother may never come back to me.

I have not seen my mother in four years. 

Thats a lie. I have not been true to my mother in four years. I have let her down.

My mother had thought that all the food should be given to Jehovah. When I came home that day she was pouring the cream on the the floor with one hand and eating a tomato in the other.

That little ruby turned to me and said. "My wolf in sheep's clothing. We would like to ask you. How long do you think the wicked going to exult."

  

cream

            My Brother told me that my grand mother had asked for tomato for her coffee. That was how she had known that some thing was wrong. She had told the mouth to tell Tina that she would like cream, and her mouth had said tomatoes. Red juicy tomatoes, solanum lycopersicum. Vine red, the name meaning wolf peach. She wanted none of this, she wanted cream. 

I take after her in that way. I need to take my coffee and pour in a pound of cream. Ease the taste of the bean. My Brother, hates coffee, my mother takes hers black, my father two spoons of sugar and a dash of milk not cream. Never had I reached for the Heinz, and as far as I know nor has my grandmother.

            Not knowing why her mouth had done this, she asked Tina once more for Tomatoes for her coffee. Tina’s eyes had look down at my grand mother and asked her if she meant cream. Tina must have thought that my grandmother was crazy. Not that she had had a stroke. That’s what it was the doctor told her a mild stroke, just a touch. Not enough of one to kill her, or even hurt her, or get in the way of her life in any way. Just enough to force her to face her own death. Just a taste of a stroke. My grand father, her ex-husband had a stroke, now he cant walk. Isn’t the peach lucky she can walk?

            Jim had told me that most people that die of old age; lose their mind before hand. He was trying to tell me how fucked up life is, your going to end up craping your self in some nursing home, with no idea who you are, where you are, or where you have been. I found this to take so much stress off my mind. I know I am going to get old, but the thought of one day setting in a diner and turning to my waitress Tina and asking her for tomatoes for my coffee. The thought that I would know that my mouth no longer obeyed me, scared me.

            My grandmother drove her self to the ER. 

 

 

             I have never been close to my family.

            Not that I didn’t love them, and not that I didn’t care for them. But for the simple fact that I didn’t understand them. I didn’t really try to. I would hear all that I want to know or need to know from my brother.

            He had told my mother that he had a stroke to, a woman had been yelling at him at his work and half his face had gone numb.

            My brother was 22.

            My grand father had been 64.               

            I don’t know how old my grand mother is.

            Most cream comes form Jersey Cattle. A brown heifer known to like the weather hot and sticky. They are bread in the hottest parts of Brazil. There milk is high in butter fat and that is why they are the queens of cream. The goddess of dairy. The worlds cream pie.

            The cow is my mother. The bull is my sire. 

            I must hove been five or six. My mother had taken my brother and my self to a friend’s house with her. Her friend Barbara, who died when I was fifteen, lived out side the city. She had cows. And she had land. Land that they would graze. I had ran away form my mother and ran into that land, ran through the juniper trees and pinyon tree, the pine nuts dieing under my feet. Then there it was. A cow.

Nothing more then a cow.

            To a six year old, this cow would be a monster. Huge and evil. I hadn’t screamed or ran away. Not taking my eyes away I walk back wards into a pinyon tree. Lowering myself I slipped under the breaches. Hiding there. I ate pine nuts when I got hungry. Creamy pine nuts.

This is where they would find me. with cream on my breath.