Incarcerated dreams

Lost in loneliness

This is how we trampoline ourselves

Into the cavern beast of lost awareness

Of pretention, of locked inside a prison cell

Imitating the life of a vagrant warrior

Captured on the gulf of Spain

Just south of Seville

Chasing windmills

Don Quixote

Never awakened

Never aroused

From the abstract prison of the mind

Textured into nothingness

Told not to claim anything

Told to accept the shipwrecked float

Told to listen softly to the sound as

It arises from the mystic desert plane

The mythical desert derecho storm arising

On the petulant horizon

Told not to dream, ever

These incarcerated dreams

Always letting the feathers rest on the head

Always fixated on a choir of birds

Softly singing the praises of

Wanton nothingness

Of always calibrating the parade

As it nestles away from the citadel center

Into the arabesque nothingness

Of limitless hill churning caravans

Making their way towards the sea

Always towards the sea

Always t0wards the unison of desert sand

To the beach rot silicon unraveling

Where we would push our toes

Towards the submergence of sand and sea

Into the camel festered wasteland

Where there are no more aimless warriors

Tipping at windmills

Awaiting for the western horizon to once again arise

Awaiting the western horizon

To paramount and plummet

The eastly beast within

To recalibrate the rush of sand

Emanating from the throat of the

Mesmerized gospel singer

Who would sit outside the confines of the café

Having one simple coffee

One simple scone made from blueberry rot

One simple addition to the skin

Of how we make ourselves

Remember a place of forgetfulness

Of slowly detaching

Desaturnating into a pimple of cheese

Of all of our skin dribbling out

Through a funneled sieve

To land in an ancient parable

Of ghosts along the waterfront

Whispering in circles

Hamid, Hamid

Mohamed observing and longing

Setting the feet down to pray at the

Elbow of the knees

The skin bathed in the absolution

Of the tympanic rhythm of the sun

Slowly making its way across the western sky

Into the Eastern eyes

The divination of the sky

 

This is where all of us, any of us

Would sleep and dream

The dreams of incarceration

The dancing feet of the Man from La Mancha

Weaving their way across the desert

Sleep to dream

Awake to arise

Move through the morning mist

Like a collection of cattle

Slowly making their way towards the arising sun

Curtailed in the divested corner of the horizon

 

The dancing feet of the Man from La Mancha

On the eastern desert horizon

Marching in cylindrical uprising

Foot to fist, knee to elbow

Making his way slowly back into

The tatoo’ed forest

Where he will soon

When he is ready

When he is effectively invigorated

Dance effortlessly in windmilled circles

Knowing that the time will come soon

When the vigorous infusion of the soul

Through the energy of the night

Will dissolve into complacency

Into melancholic nightfall

The descension once again of the sun

Down to the foothill toes of the horizon

Beneath the chin of the sphinx

In the desert wasteland

Dead and dreaming

Once again

The dreams of incarceration

Back into the prison cell

In the hearth of the heart

There will be no more extravagant windmills

For this vagrant strain to choose

There will only be complacency

Of the descension into fate

On the shores of the ocean

Collecting the integration of the desert

 

No more hallucinations

Only the stories of the night

The threshold of incarcerated dreaming

If only these grappling festered wounds would heal

There would be no more need for

Blood sucking leech fiends

To drum out the demoralizing gasp of lifeforce

Only just the windmill arms

Of the Man from La Mancha