Sunday, June 8, 2014

Ron Silliman Dream #37: Thru The Tulip Field

artist rendition of Ron and Me

We're in a bath together.

I can't tell if I'm male or female.

The water's all smudged up with dead floating mosquitoes and rust's dripping into the tub relentlessly.

I'm getting close to climax and I'm staring out the glittering window where a cold white horse's prancing around in the iron sunlight. But it's too much! It's just way too much.

So, I look back into Ron's eye and it's hollowed out, like it's a cartoon: a roach darting back and forth. "This orgasm's just not happening," I think, trying to focus on the roach, as if this will lift me up into a perfect and holy realm where I can see everything truthfully and compassionately.

Now we're in a big, fancy, cathedral-like mall, next to a skating rink, and Ron's turned into a green, bronze statue with a pretty decent sized penis.

The mosquitoes are rising up around us now in a thickening cloud-mass and we're in a public bathroom standing next to each other pissing.

A small girl, maybe 7 or 8, walks up to and grabs Ron's penis.

And she tugs on it and starts giggling.

I'm chasing Ron naked through a tulip field.

artist rendition of Ron and Me

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Ron Silliman dream #36: White Rabbit

artist rendition of Ron and Me

Ron's across from my wife and me at a conference table.

My wife's grasping my hand quite firmly.

"We need to integrate our love," Ron says, sliding a tiny white rabbit across the table towards us.

This sounds good to me, I think as my wife looks at the rabbit for maybe a millisecond and then blurts out "You mean like a Ménage à Trois," absolutely butchering the French phrase in the process.

Like the phrase itself is dirty. Horrible. A real fucking sin.

Some time later I'm having sex, tender and excruciatingly beautiful, with my wife on the couch. And Ron's sitting next to us. But the communion with my wife is so complete, so deep, Godlike and consuming that I'm only slightly aware or concerned about his presence.

And my wife, thankfully, is 1000% oblivious.

But now Ron's started pacing back and forth in front of the TV. Like a panther in an early Ted Hughes poem. And the TV's showing a close-up, bright facial of Nicolas Cage.

Ron punches the TV. . . .Cage's face shatters.

And then Ron falls to the ground howling "Just be yourself, Rauan. Just be your fucking self."

My wife starts to moan.

"Only the biggest orgasm for Mama," Ron whimpers out.

The small white rabbit's on the coffee stand and it's twitching.

"Please don't bleed," I tell myself. "Please don't bleed."

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

Ron Silliman Dream #35: Sixshooter

artist's rendition of Ron and Me
I walk into a Chelsea club and up on the bar dancing languidly about in his white underwear is my Ron Silliman.

And he's got a Cowboy hat on and he's twirling a couple of sixshooters slowly and languidly in his rough, beautiful hands. And now he's firing them: Bang. Bang.

And he smacks his lips and runs his tongue up and out each time he says the magical and intoxicating syllable: Bang. Bang. And this could be a dangerous auction, I think. But I'm ready for the ride (this aint my first rodeo, you know).

A scrawny guy with piss-yellow hair's talking to Ron, now, and I feel, watching them, now, that I'm in a Catullus poem. Or a Sappho fragment.

Then, after what seems like an eternity, Ron comes towards me slowly taking off his underwear while uttering the magic word over and over: Bang. Bang. Bang.

He stands over me, and--taking his sweet ol' time--begins to open up his beautiful, enormous pussy for me.

"Will you still love me," he croons, "when I'm old."

His pussy's so adorable, furry, and glistening, and, as he squats down, it's almost touching my face.

A rich aroma envelopes and penetrates me to the depths of my soul. The richness is overwhelming. And I can't breathe enough of it in. (Deep breath. Sigh. Deep breath.)

And, the next thing I know, I'm wandering alone in some old, misty forest. And I'm looking at my hands. And they are covered in blood. Blood that keeps changing color. Keeps changing color.

And I'm spinning around and around. Till I fall down and nuzzle into and suck, suck, suck at the wet soothing earth. (I know this smell, I think. It's like the shoveled earth of a grave. Or Poetry!)

And I'm crying. Crying out for joy. Joy. Joy.

Till joy's filled the whole, old boat of the world. And I let it all go.

Sunday, May 4, 2014

Ron Silliman dream #34: Amazing Grace

Artist Rendition of Ron and Me

Paradise: And my love like a gentle mist.

A quiet park. A few gentle people. A bit of muted birdsong. Slow rippling water in the distance.

"I need you to fuck me," Ron blurts out wildly, disfigured shards of I-DON'T-GIVE-A-FUCK-WHERE-JUST-NOW-NOW-NOW!!!

And he's clutching at me like he's drowning. Or shit-faced drunk.

And he's a fiend, all desire—in heat. And I try to subdue the beast: "Let's go somewhere else, my darling." (There are more people now. And they're speaking in hushed tones. And the water sounds like it's under all sorts of pressure, about to boil, I think.)

But my love's unreachable. Unchangeable. And bites at my ear. And cackles. All peace and decorum cracked. A chaos of dementia. Color and bugs. Like the beasts that range in our blood. A sudden nausea thrusting up.

"I need to be fucked!" "I need to be fucked!" "I need to be fucked."

As he clutches at me. And claws at me, clutching. And clutching. (swoon. swoon.)

A pair of ducks come waddling up to us. (This is a nightmare! Could I die?... But I'm not ready to die! O, God, I am so not ready to die. Why? Why? WHY? WHY? O, I am so not ready to die).

They graze oblivious, their necks so astonishingly bruised. Necks like Amazing Grace. Necks like a boat lost, blazing away at the sea.

Necks like a choir of heavenly, purified annihilations.

"I need to be fucked." "I need to be fucked." "O, I need to be fucked."

And the ducks, aloof—like hooks into and down through my brain—are my slight sanity. My sole balance. My unique, drifting compass.

And, O, how they graze on so peacefully.

Like a single, wooden cross.

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Ron Silliman Dream #33: KEEP OFF THE LAWN

Artist Rendition of Ron and Me
"o, such a beautiful magpie," Ron caws, pointing a penis in a jar.

My feet are raw big rafts of extravagant ice. And I can't move. Can't move even sluggishly. Could I die, I think, vaguely, ???

And then Ron's gone and when he returns he tells me he was with someone else. Tells me it was like it was no big deal. Tells me like he's doing the laundry. Like he's folding up a pair of old socks.

"now, that's some bird," Ron caws out again, as the jars dance around us with their shadowy cargo. "I only touched his leg once or twice," he tells me, and I'm thinking this guy is a crow. I want to skewer this crow: And leave this crow skewered out by mailbox as a warning like "don't fuck with my Ron."

There was a train, I remember. (And maybe I can move now? No. No.) It crawled up into lives and skies so beautifully. We sewed through the hills. It was like making a magic dress. A dress to get married in and cavort all night long in an ancient and sophisticated dance.

This feels like a fishing trip. Like one big wave. And then another.


The jars of formaldehyde are flashing colors as they revolve around us more and more slowly. I feel like its X-Mas. I feel like I am Jesus Christ.


And I feel as though I am rising up in a kind of wave of Neruda.

And Ron is flying with me. Yeah, Ron is my right hand man. And he is grinning. And he is touching me. Rubbing himself—beaks and claws and feathers and cawing— all over me.

And I can hear trumpets, dark and oily, like we're entering Eden for the first and last god damned time.

Friday, April 25, 2014

Ron Silliman Dream #32: The Freakiest Guy

Ron and I are out driving around looking at X-Mas lights.

Suddenly he leans, cuddling, against my shoulder:

"O, Rauan, you're the freakiest guy I've been with."

He pauses for a moment, colored lights splashed, blinking, all over his face. And he's rubbing up against me, almost purring his charged, hot body against mine:

"And am I the freakiest girl you've ever been with?"

I hesitate. A large herd of deer are blazing out from the yard we're rolling slowly past. Blazing out red, yellow and white. And I hesitate. They are so damned beautiful. And  I hesitate.

"O, no," Rauan laments, whining. "I'm not! I am not! I am not! O, no Rauan! O, no!"

And I'm immediately terrified with Déjà Vu ambiguity. Excited because a long passionate night/fire/chaos awaits us. But, at the same time, I can't even imagine what cruel and ludicrous abuses Ron is going to exhort and even force me to visit on his insatiable flesh.

And I'm suddenly not up for this at all. And I feel as though I am falling, flailing—like a dead bird—through the immensities of desire, fulfillment and annihilation.

"O, No, Rauan" .... "O, No!" .... "O, No!" ... "O, No!"

Monday, April 21, 2014

Ron Silliman Dream #31: A Major Pleasure

artists rendition of Ron and Me

During the 7th inning stretch I'm pissing next to Ron at a Phillies game. (I've always liked the Phillies).

"I want you to write my obituary," Ron says, as he shakes his cock about, quite elegantly. "And I want you to post it on my blog for me."

What can I even write, I wonder to myself, about such a rare and unique example of humanity? (I scratch my head, feeling for a moment that I'm in a hospital full of near-dead people all lined up for appointments they probably won't make it to).

"O, just say that I was one of the Titans of Modern Letters. Say that I was a major player. A major pleasure and player," Ron says, seemingly having read my mind.

And then he digs a nail into his cock and blood´s everywhere. People are streaming in and out of the restroom. And Ron's massively erect now and he's stroking himself so slowly and patiently and erotically that I've nearly lost my mind, I think, because, well, Ron should be bleeding to death and no one seems to care, and Ron keeps touching himself.

And where's the blood, now? Where's the blood?

(I am lost. I am lost.)             -----

Ron grunts me back into the moment with "O, Rauan, I love you so God Damned much." He is intense, phenomenal, a kind of Tour de Force, a natural freak, of the highest order, blah, blah.

"Say, my little bird," Ron continues, swaying a little now, "that women of all breeds, livid and glittering, sewed their breasts into the fountains and gymnasiums of more dominant women at huge parties thrown in honor of my poetry."

"Say I wasn´t just a pretty face with incredible sexual stamina! Say, say, say---Say I was the Burning Man of Modern Literature!"

("And by the way," he says, tilting, and leering, towards me, "watch Machete, that fine movie, to find my blog's password. Ho! Ho! Ho!"

And Ron's cock's rubbing against my stomach and as the tip of it glints, like a beak, I know that I am pregnant. And I can see—not far into the future—a child surrounded by vultures it keeps petting. And petting.)

"Say that my poetry talked dogs off the railroad tracks! And say I was the dark figure that fucked and fucked and fucked William fucking Shakespeare's cold-fucking brain!"

At this point Ron's jumping up and down, hand still on his cock, but not so slow and patient now. Disjointed, jerking, disfigured, but still massively potent. And massively compelling.

"Say that I was a New Religion!"

The blood's back now, foaming and splashing about, like a car wash.

"Say that I clawed and almond-assed at the world in a Brave New Conciousness!"

"And say, say, say---Say I was the Truth, my Love. Say the Truth. The Truth. The Truth!!!"

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

3 Lost Silliman Dreams -- #28, 29, 30 (from Sept 2009)

(to follow are some dreams fro Sept 2009 that I just found on my old blog... technically they aren't numbers 28, 29, 30, but, what the hell)

I've been dreaming Ron Silliman again. Yes, it's been a while. And God knows how much I've missed my man. So here are three new Ron Silliman Dreams (illustrated by my new style. uggghhhh!!) Maybe I'll add some crayon pictures later. Hmmmmmm.

1) The Addict

I’m lying in bed not sure if I’m awake or asleep. I hear a noise and my wife nudges me.

“It’s probably nothing,” I mumble, half-asleep-ish. But I’m pretending. I’m wide awake. And I know we need to go check it out. So I fumble on some clothes and we head downstairs.

And, there, disconnecting our DVD from the T.V. is the sorriest looking thief you’ll ever see. Probably a heroin addict, I think. Or a meth-head. (I saw a documentary on meth the other night.)

“Pl-please,” he stutters. “Help me.”

“Help you?” I gasp. (but the back of my mind’s frantic. I know this voice. God damnit, this, this pathetic little wretch here, this shell of a man, burned out and battered, this, this is Ron Silliman. The great big Ron Silliman. O, my!)

“Yes, help me, pl-pl-pl-please,” he mutters through black putrid teeth.

I suddenly feel like crying. Like when I’m in a really big church and the full weight of mortality dawns on me with deepening, dome-crescendoing, steepling force.

“Kill the rat!”—-- a voice explodes out from behind me. It’s my wife. And she’s passed me a pitchfork. 

“Kill him now, damnit, kill him now.”

“But it’s a living creature,” I plead. And I’m struggling.

And the decayed-rat-Silliman’s flung down at my feet. Sobbing. Beseeching. Begging. Befouling. Bemoaning. And this hurts. It just hurts.

“Pl-pl-pl-pl-pl-please,” he spits forth. “You can have anything. My wife. My children. My soul. Curtis Faville. David Shapiro and all his dreams. And all my poems. Yes, I’ll write for you. Blog for you. Chirp for you. Bark for you. Turtle for you. Strip down to just a fig leaf and be your Eve throbbing in your wounded side under the greening eyes of God and Serpent in that beautiful beautiful garden. Anything, anything,, pl-pl-pl-please.”

The church dome’s sucking the tears up into my eyes and all around us I notice the shadows and figures of trees and walls are taking on a silver kind of blackness. And it all seems to be swelling. Something’s about to happen, I think. We’re in the presence of Grace forming, I think: a Miracle spreading its wings and closing them all around us.

“Kill the fucking rat,” my wife explodes, again. High-strung. Ecstatic. “Now!”

And the pitchfork rises up. And comes down firmly.

Back in bed I try again:

“It was a living creature. Like Robbie Burns talked about. It lived, breathed. It was filled with arches and light. Like Transtromer’s old woman in church. Arches and light. Arches and light”——

“I have no sympathy for rats,” my wife interrupts me. “You should go downstairs and take some pictures of it.”

2) The Infected

A Mr. Welsby met me at the door. It was a very nice place. Kind of like an office but like a house too. There were tables and chairs and beds. And mostly women sitting and loafing around. Their eyes were all vacant. Must be a cult, I thought.

And where is this guy? Where in the hell is he?

And then from behind a velvety armoire steps forth this fat glowing man with just a towel around his waist. And one around his head. Egyptian. Chic. Terrifying.

“I’m Ron Silliman,” he says. “And I’m very pleased to meet you.”

I don’t want to shake hands. But we do.

“I’m hoping we can do lots of business,” he purrs, unfurling from who knows where a large moleskin order book.

“And let’s get right down to business,” he continues. “I need drugs. Lots of them. The type they sell so cheap to Africans.”

“But why?” I ask. “You seem so robust.”

“Ah, but no,” he sighs, smoothly and sadly. “Look closer.”

And when I do I can see he’s covered in bright red lesions. His entire body (or what I can see of it anyways) is covered in these flaring red monstrosities. And when I look even closer I can see he’s all covered in a very thin white-yellow plastic. A full body condom.

“We can do business, yes?,” he continues, purring in a chair to my left now. And I’m in bed. And a woman in lingerie’s crawling on to me.

“This is my sister, Regina,” Ron purrs.

And, indeed, R-E-G-I-N-A is spelled across her tight white t-shirt in big bright red glittering letters.

And Regina’s unbuttoning my shirt. Undoing my belt. Unzipping my pants.

“Don’t resist,” Ron purrs, climbing on to the bed with us. “It’s useless.”

“So many times," he purrs, licking my neck through the condom, (and God, this feels good) “I’ve tried to resist her. But it’s impossible. Absolutely impossible.”

“But how did you get so sick, anyways?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

And Ron’s back in his chair now. And Regina’s gone.

“I was Magic Johnson’s assistant,” he purrs. But this time the purring’s flawed. Sinking. Sticky. Dead.

“I’d go everwhere with him. Get all his sloppy seconds. All this turd thirds. His faded fourths. His fried out fifths. And man that guy could score. And me too! And man that guy could take it to the rim. And me too! And man he could dunk. And me too! And after that I was taken on by Oscar De La Hoya. And then Tom Jones. And Evander Holyfied. I worked for all the best. Damn they were good. Agile and long-lasting. And I was too!”

Ron looks so sad remembering. But a kind of elation tingles through him glowing.

“But you can cure me, right here, right now,” he suddenly blurts out through his condom body suit.

“All you need to do,” he says, “Is pull this silver thread from my navel.”

And when I do out comes a duck.

“Kiss me,” it chortles.

And when I kiss it (longer than I probably should) Ron turns into a German super model.

I kiss it again and Ron turns back into a lesioned body condom. I kiss it again and Ron’s a supermodel. I kiss it again and Ron’s a condom. Again and again Ron’s super. And again and again white-yellow. And so on.

And so on. And so on.

Like wrestling the sun and the moon at the same time. Fused into one. Flashing back and forth. On steroids. Faster and faster.

3) The Insane (A God?)

I’m sitting across from Ron Silliman in the visitor’s area of the Psychiatric Ward. He’s staring out into nowhere and he’s drooling. Actually what he’s staring at is a late-afternoon sky filled with tens of thousands of squawking grackles.

I look at the sky and it’s swarming. A shiver runs through me. I look back at Ron and into his eyes and they too are filled with swarming grackles. Shiver. Shiver. Shiver. Like waves of an orgasm rippling through me.

God, I think. Ron’s manipulating the sky.

God, I think, Ron’s a kind of God.

But Ron’s in the middle of ECT treatment and he’s not taking it well.

“What about yr blog?” I ask him hopefully.

“O, I’ve got Charles Bronson running it for me now,” he says. “I thought about Dennis Cooper but Charles is just so much tougher. And rougher. And huffer. And, O Rauan!!”

I’m stunned. A moment ago this former mountain of a man was dribbling spit like a retard but now he’s coming back to life with a vigor that would rival Rilke and all his strange flowers and does leaping back into those sad and long-neglected Duino Elegies.

“I’ve got plans, Rauan” he bursts out, almost singing. “I’ve got plans. When I finally kick this bird, this big fat cheese, this Jupiter, this cold damned neutron star, I’m going to really hum. Hum, hum, hummmmmmmmm…”

“But, Ron, why are you so depressed??”

“It’s all Tito’s fault,” Ron winces.


“Yeah, that midget who works on my pool and back yard.”

“This isn’t another one of those sad my-poolman-and-my-wife stories is it?”

“No, it’s one of those poolman-and-me stories!”

“O, Ron, how could you?” I meekly proffer.

And with that Ron begins to sob.

“It was heaven while it lasted,” Ron manages through his cascading tears. “And boy he could last. But he left me. Tito, Tito, Tito: that cold-hearted bastard! And went back to Mexico. Went back to working in a fish-processing plant for $1.75 a day. Can you believe that? I was paying him twice that and he never had to stand up at all! Damnit!”

And now the floodgates are completely open. But through the torrents I’m able still to peer into Ron’s eyes and there I can see the blackbirds settling onto the bare branches where they’re starting to really squawk now.

The squawk, collectively and boomingly, rising and falling, stretching into an eerie sound that kinda sounds, broken and bouncing in the middle, like “Ti-to, Ti-to, Ti-to,...”

And in Ron’s eyes I can see a young Mexican, naked and bruised and bloody: Tito. And this Mexican’s running from a big fat bull. Running down through the heartlands of America. Into Texas. Down over the Rio Grande in one fell swoop.

And the bull stops. And a tear runs down its cheek.

And a tear runs down Ron’s cheek.

Damn, I think. Ron is a kind of God. And I’m in awe.

And a tech came forward.

“Excuse me, Mr. Silliman. It’s time for another zap.”

And as they roll the poor and godlike Ron Silliman into the lightning’s jaws I look outside where the birds had been swirling and now instead I can see a young, gorgeous Tito, dressed immaculately, walking into his Abuela’s house where he sits down with all the family, thousands of them, and begins, long into the night to play at the eternal game of poker. One peso limit.

Grand prize: a 2 kilogram Huachinango.

And a couple of times I think I can hear Ron Silliman screaming.

Do you know how much it hurts to hear a God screaming?

Like a hog being slaughtered. Or a lobster whistling.

If you're interested in reading the older (ancient!) Silliman dreams then hit one of the labels below. Or visit this blog.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Ron Silliman Dream #27: O, Papi, O Papi (A Dove, An Orca, A Kill)

"Spring's afraid of me," Ron whispers.

But then something's happened.

"O, Papi," Ron's breathing—panicked, hysterical—in my ear.

I'm walking briskly, staring straight ahead as Ron clings to me, repeating, over and over, wild & foamy: "O, Papi, O, Papi, O Papi, I am so sorry, Mi Amor."

"Are you having my son?" a piece of paper stapled to the light post asks. "He is good boy. Please return him us."

Ron's face lights up.

"Let me kill someone for you," he blurts out.

"O, my darling, please" he continues, hand, intimately, on my shoulder, "Let me kill someone for you. Some nobody keeps track of."

"Or better yet," he adds, after a moment's thought," let me kill someone really important. Like a priest!"

And next thing I know (yikes!) we're in the old church and Ron's got someone pinned under his heaving body. But his body's not a real body at all. It looks like a squirming word-mess.

An actual, physical mass of squirming words all aglow is what my Ron's become. And this word system's violent, irresistible. Like The Borg in Star Trek, I think: Resistance is futile! And I'm appalled, of course (there's a terrible moaning emanating from the mass), but I'm also impressed with the special effects. Am mesmerized by the glow and seethe and playfulness. How do they do this, I think to myself?? How on earth do they do it.

A dove lands on my wrist (a vague sense of screaming).

"O, PAPI !!!!!!!!!!!!" Ron whoops out suddenly, like an orca's glee in the celebrating of a crucial kill. "O, PAPI !!!!!!!!!!!!" "O, PAPI !!!!!!!!!!!!" "O, PAPI !!!!!!!!!!!!"

The dove nibbles at my thumb. It's like I'm on a mountain.

This is the missing boy, I think. This is the missing boy.

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Ron Silliman Dream #26 (The Stars Are Hungry)

"I love farting in the bath," Ron says.

(unfortunately it's just a fragment. a blur. and, o, God, how I wish I knew what came before and after that).

What I do remember next, though, is that Ron and I are at a huge party rollicking and thronged with naked men, women, beasts, children, galaxies, diseases, arguments, Artworks, hot dog stands, clocks, etc, etc

And I'm staring at a ravishing young woman and (snap!) I'm in bed with her surrounded by the party's seething chatter, energy, mirrors, cigar smoke, etc. But it seems like we're alone.

Hours seem to pass. Physical luxury surpasseth. Pancakes, topped with maple syrup, powdered sugar.

I orgasm—and I'm with Ron, again.

"These are all me," he says, turning his palms up in front of him in a magnificent and generous gesture.

"Yes," this is all me, Ron says. And he's winking at me.

I'm not well focused on my man, though, because I'm staring now at an agile guy dancing behind him, and (snap!) we're in a steam room, tight. And again the chattering and energies of the party roil about us, timeless, lost.

I orgasm, again—and I'm with Ron, again.

A dog barks. It's a mangy, rabid Dachshund and as soon as I've looked at it we're alone in a dark alley and it's tearing away at my thighs. The party looms in the walls. In the darkness. But, again, we're completely alone.

Hours seem to pass, again. The torment, agony and dripping is the greatest pleasure of my life. Till the dog sprouts wings and ascends, winking, as though off to herd, nipping away at the heels of celestial orgies.

I am so content, like a scene from Sex and The City.

But I am afraid. And alone now. No party. No Ron. Nothing.

The stars—they are hungry. And the wind's insatiable. I hear a monkey howl, seductively, but menacingly. The trembling hiss of a boa (an extinct type, I think).

A child asking table to table if someone would please buy a rose.

My eyes are shut. I have no desire to fuck the world. Enough is enough, I think. Enough is enough.

But then I think why not? And I open them.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Ron Silliman Dream #25: The Bloody Tutu (Spork Confrontation)

"We've got a problem," says Andrew Shuta of Spork as he and Drew Burk guide me into a fancy conference room.

Ron's sitting across from us, flanked by a couple of tough, angry looking lawyers. Ron looks absolutely soulless.

"Look," Ron starts in, kind of beaming at me. "I'll forget the $50 or so worth of royalties or the 10 or 12 author copies that you most certainly owe me but from now on I'm the cover."

He pauses for effect and then continues: "yeah, from now on, kids, I want and require my precious mug to be on the cover of each and every handmade Sky Rat you naughty Tucson Cowboys turn out."

Andrew and Drew lock eyes for a moment, clearly upset, but before anyone can say anything Ron's leaped up on the shiny table and he's got a violin and he's wearing a pink Tutu (matching his bowtie) and he's playing Kishi Bashi's "Philosophize In It! Chemicalize In It!"

Wow! Just Wow! And I'm really loving it!

It reminds me of why I've fallen for Ron in so many cities and rubbish dumps. Like the red light district in Amsterdam at 5 a.m. Or that stone park in Kinshasa.

And it's not just a decent version of Kishi's hit it's a rousing one. I'm entranced. I am floating. Love is tender. Love is sweet. Love flits about on such gorgeous feet!

Drew's climbed up on the table and he's slammed Ron's head into the table. Down into the table. And down into the table.

Ron's teeth are smashed, the violin's broken and yet somehow the song keeps playing, more and more hauntingly beautiful.

Andrew, Drew and I are walking in the rain.

Suddenly Drew's pulled out a blood-stained Tutu.

We laugh. But it's not funny. It's not funny at all.

Ron Silliman Dream #24: O, My Nipples

I sit down to Project Runway with my wife Edith and our popcorn and (woa!) Ron's one of the contestants. 

He's putting the final touches on this blue and green thing that looks just like one of the dresses my mother wore when I was a child and it makes me think The Tree of Life with that retarded Brad Pitt voice over, stars, shadows & dinosaurs.

It makes me think also of the Guns 'n Roses song: "She's got a smile that it seems to me / Reminds me of childhood memories / Where everything / Was as fresh as the bright blue sky."

And I'm tingling now because Ron's just started singing the song and that must mean this is a lucid dream and that I'm in control. That I can make Ron and I rise up together and fly away. That I can make Ron and I do whatever I want. Absolutely whatever.

The T.V. explodes. Ron's in my arms.

A naked newborn baby. But I know it's my Ron because of the way its buttocks are rubbing against my chest.

And Ron, my little baby, has found his way to one of my teats and he looks so cute nursing at me, making such wonderful little noises. I am so content.

But, now he's biting me—And I am bleeding.

He goes at me mercilessly.

I'm outraged—And the pain's excruciating. But I am so damned proud of my Ron. My baby. My little sex and death kitten. My future— And my everything.

I am bleeding, yes, but I am glowing. A proud glowing Mom.

Monday, April 7, 2014

Ron Silliman Dream # 23: Table Dance

Ron gives me a table dance.

At first I thought it was a tall beautiful blonde-haired Ukrainian woman but something about the hard-scrabbled determination of its desperate thighs and the rough way she touched my face betrayed him completely.

Yes, it's Ron Silliman.

"Would you like to shoot some pool?" she asks while running her hands over and over her black brassiere.

"I love your style and equipment," she tells me a little later but all I can think is man, o, man, Ron's tongue is like an eel. Like a god-damned fucking eel!

"Quit stripping... for me," I ask/tell him as we lie together in each other's arms watching Jerry Springer and lapping down some excellent Cream Soda.

"I'd miss it too much," Ron answers, cold and soulless. "And I don't think I'd like to be your woman because you'd probably take advantage of me in extremely bad ways."

Ron is completely Ron now. No illusions now.

The stubble on his cheek. The dark intelligence and devious passion of his doe-like eyes.

(Outside I hear a skunk raising its tail. The filthy hole.)

I pay him and leave.

Sunday, April 6, 2014

New Ron Silliman Dream (#22): Grab Ass

the following is my first Ron dream in over 5 years:

Ron Silliman grabs my ass at a funeral.

Yes, I'm at the funeral of my best friend's daughter. She was 16 months old and there was a small thin tube down her throat. And, o, how her mother cried clutching at my shirt each time I visited them on my way home from work.

"Let us go then, you and I," whispers Ron, huskily, and I am powerless, watching us go trembling, impatient, like a couple of greedy insatiable teenagers. Through the cemetery gates guarded by twin giant oak trees. And on into the long tall grass.

And then the tenderness of flesh. The sweetness. All the blood and the screaming. The holding off of time and decay. And then the glowing as we stroll on hand in hand.

Maybe we've died and are strolling towards heaven, I think. But in the distance I can see a crude gallows has been erected and I can see people getting out of smart cars.

Ron's grip on my hand tightens. Suddenly he's extremely strong. Like a young Schwarzenegger. And I'm panicked.

“Look,” I say, “I’m not really sure what I've done but couldn't I just write a couple of poems, or a short symphony, and we’ll just call it even.”

The sky's like the end of time. The sky's like a bright shining dime that reminds me of our sins. And I can almost hear Robbie Williams' rising angels. And everything's going to be ok. It's going to be ok.

Ron snaps out a quick “No!” puts his hands on my shoulders, looks deep into my eyes and tells me: “I am really sorry, my little bird. I am really sorry.”

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Ron Silliman Dreams

Ron Silliman dreams (and one vision) came to me in three batches. All have been posted to my blog(s) except for the 8th dream in the 2nd Batch ("In a Bar") which originally appeared in Blake Butler's on-line journal Lamination Colony.

I haven't dreamed of Ron in quite a while now. Maybe I'm done. But, of course, you never know. I miss him.

Ron Silliman Dream # 1 (Batch 1, dream 1): I am going to bury you


My wife tells me there’s a call for me.

“This is Ron Silliman"-- and, before I can say anything: “Where do you get off making fun of my weight?”

He's really upset and I’m afraid.

“What are you talking about?” I manage.

“On your blog and in your posts you’re labeling me as “The Big Man.”

“O, God,” I reply, laughing.

But Ron’s not amused:

“Listen here, you little punk. I am going to bury you. I am going to fcking bury you!”

I want to say that I’m referring to his internet presence. His on-line stature.

Want to say that I’ve never met or seen him. Not even a photo of anything but his face. But he’s in a zone and he just keeps on at me.

I was afraid before, but now my anxiety's through the roof.

And, so, while Ron rants on (like a fire, really) a vision comes to me:

A big lumbering man’s carrying my lifeless body into a clearing. He tosses me off like a bag of concrete and goes down at the ground, digging. He looks so strong, muscled and beautiful——and I think to myself. “He’s not fat at all.”

Ron Silliman Dream # 2 (Batch 1, dream 2): A Brain Shot

George Orwell, Ron Silliman and I are walking into a village that looks like it’s been hit by a hurricane. Silliman suddenly chirps up in a kind of screech: “There it is! There it is!” and he’s jumping up and down like a boy at his first circus.

And, yes, he's spotted the elephant--off to the side, grazing quite peacefully. It looks so relaxed and so wise.

A lackey steps forward with a gun.

Silliman grabs it. I try to wrestle it away from him, and we fall, locked, to the ground. As we struggle, panting and groaning, I notice Orwell’s sitting down, drawing.

He's drawing the elephant and he's drawing it all in blue, except for the eyes for which he's using a kind of intense emerald green.

Silliman gets the upper hand and knees me in the nuts.

I’m next to the Big-Man in a helicopter and we’re coming down at a herd of elephants.

Silliman smacks the pilot’s back and shouts out “lower! Lower!” and he leans out and he’s firing.

A baby elephant, perhaps 6 months old, slides right down into the dirt. Red dust flares up.

Silliman’s screaming:

“Did you see that? A brain shot. A perfect brain shot.”

Ron Silliman Dream # 3 (Batch 1, dream 3): Sorry


George Orwell and Ron Silliman are walking me through tall, dry grass.

Orwell says “You know it really hurts me to do this.”

Silliman says nothing.

In the distance a crude gallows has been erected and I can see people getting out of smart cars.

“Look,” I say, “I’m not really sure what I’ve done but couldn’t I just write a couple of poems, or a short symphony, and we’ll just call it even.”

Silliman snaps out a quick “No!” and bounds on through the grass like a dog.

Orwell puts his hands on my shoulders, looks deep into my eyes and tells me:

“I am really sorry, my little bird. I am really sorry.”

Ron Silliman Dream # 4 (Batch 1, dream 4): (a vision, actually)


To follow is a draft of a poem I’ve never submitted anywhere because, frankly, I think you’d have to be a complete fool and idiot to publish it:

The parrot I bought from a fat man in Laredo may well be retarded. All he grinds out is “Cunt!” “Cunt! Cunt! Cunt!” All night, even, that's all he grinds out: “Cunt! Cunt! Cunt!” One night I was drunk, really drunk, and the girl I was with wanted it in the ass: “In the ass!” she urged, “In the ass!” and I had no idea where I was, the whole scene covered in fog, and all I’m sure of’s she kept screaming “No, Pussy! No, Pussy!”

Well, for some reason while having breakfast this morning I thought of this poem (maybe it has something to with my wife asking me if wanted some sugar on my cereal and my answer--“No, Honey.”)

Anyways, it’s strange how the mind works but for some reason, staring down at my cereal there, I had a vision of Ron Silliman, The Big Man, laboring at an exquisite young creature, down on her hands and knees, and screaming--

“No, Langpo. No, Langpo.”

Thinking about this now I guess he must have been hitting her SOQ.

Ron Silliman Dream # 5 (Batch 1, dream 5): A Beautiful Conversation

I enjoy birding. But I am definitely not a "birder." I also have birds in cages. My friend Raoul, a serious Buddhist, doesn’t like cages.

"But they’re happy," I tell him. These are big cages, you see, and my birds eat really well. And they have plenty of toys. Some of them even build nests and lay eggs. But Raoul is not won over, so I try a different tack:

“Raoul, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll let the birds go free if I can put you in a cage for a year.”

Anyways, this is all just foreplay to the next dream:

I walk downstairs and Lord!——there’s Ron Silliman, naked, in a cage. Without missing a beat, though, I call out to him. “How’s it going, Ron?” “Beautiful, beautiful,” he twitters. “I’ve never been so happy.”

And, really, he does look radiant.

So, I pull up a chair and we start talking-- and I think to myself that is the most civil and satisfying conversation I’ve had in my entire life. Some of the details are fuzzy now but here are some impressions and details I remember about this conversation:

Ron is extremely well-fed. I order him Chinese, Thai, Italian, etc. On certain Sundays the cooks from the local restaurant, La Cucaracha, take over the kitchen here and prepare treats for Ron to sample.

Ron is still writing and blogging. And it doesn’t bother him in the slightest that everything he writes and blogs has to go through me. “O, what does it matter,” he says, “when you’re so damned happy.”

Ron has had many epiphanies here in this cage by my turtles. But the "Everest" of these epiphanies, he tells me, is that “Freedom and flying are way overrated.”

Sunday, November 9, 2008

Ron Silliman Dream # 6 (Batch 1, dream 6): In Court


I’m in court with Ron Silliman. He’s cross-examining me.

“Where were you, Rauan M. Klassnik,” on March, 2nd 2003, he asks-- winking at me, and then, again and again, all around the room.

“I have no idea,” I answer. “I’m sorry but I don’t have one of those calendar memories.”

The judge gives me a bad look.

“Then I’ll give you an easier one,” Silliman says. “A slow-pitch softball. A watermelon.”

I’m starting to feel uncomfortable. Silliman pauses for effect and then launches out again:

“Where were you on March 2nd, 1932,”

“Ha!” I exclaim right away. “I wasn’t even born then.”

Ron jumps right back at me: “It is well known, and time-stamped too, that you were at your computer using the handle ‘monkey-face’ to slander me. Slander me horribly.”

He pauses again, and then:

“And, so, do you deny this?”

I look over at the judge, and when he gives me a really nasty look I notice he’s wearing a cap that says Langpo.”

On recess, and this is all feeling very Law-&-Order, Silliman approaches me:

“you know we can settle this all very simply.” And he winks at me again.

The next thing I know I’m in a hospital room. In the bed next to me’s a young woman in a suit. She’s got a small purple bruise on her right cheek.

“We should sue,” she says.

Ron Silliman Dream # 7 (Batch 1, dream 7): In a Boat

I'm treading water far out at sea and just starting to really panic when a boat appears. It’s not very big and The Big Man, Ron Silliman, is on it.

“What’s going on, buddy?” he asks me and, after I tell him how happy I am to see him, he tells me he’d love (and he draws the word “love” out for just a bit too long) “love” to help me on board and give me a ride back to shore——but, first, I need to recite ten poems that mean absolutely nothing.

“Ten poems,” he explains, “that are complete nonsense.”

I’m kind of tired out here in the middle of the ocean, so I start reciting, but he quickly interrupts me: “C’mon, man. You know better. That just a mangled version of one of Berrigan’s Sonnets.”

So, I try a nursery rhyme and of course that won’t do.

But then I a moment of great inspiration I start barking and he breaks out into a huge grin and, leaning over the side of the boat, begins to pat my head: “There’s a good boy. There’s a good boy.”

The sad thing’s I don’t remember getting out of the water. I’m just there in the blue waves barking and Silliman’s patting my head: “There’s a good boy. There’s a good boy.”

Ron Silliman Dream # 8 (Batch 1, dream 8): Hello, I'm Ron Silliman

My little Pekingnese, Chuy (from Pikachu not Jesus—Spanish pronounciation “Hey, Soose”), starts talking.

I’m in the bath and he’s stretching up against the side so it’s only his little head peering over the edge:

“I’m Ron Silliman,” he says, “and it’s nice to meet you.”

Well, usually I like to take my baths in peace (and think great and peaceful thoughts——ha ha) but this has my attention.

“Chuy,” I stutter. “You’re breaking my heart.”

“I’m not Chuy,” Chuy(or Ron) replies. “But, it’s okay and if you want I will be your Chuy for you.”

After I get out of the bath (I make Chuy/Ron look the other way, his dark-brown bulging eyes making me a little self-conscious), the dog-man and I have a heart to heart, while I’m rubbing its stomach with my feet.

Chuy/Ron tells me that Ron Silliman died yesterday (out in his garden planting radishes) and this really upsets me because I don’t like it when any one or thing dies.

“But now I’m here,” Ron says, “and I’ll be a good boy. I promise you. A very good boy.”

I really miss Chuy. But I suppose we can make this work.

“Fair enough,” I tell him, “but I have one condition.”

“Shoot,” he says.

“No poetry talk. Deal?”

Ron cocks his head to the left. Then looks straight at me and sitting back on his ass, offers his right paw up to me.

(this, by the way, is a trick Chuy’s never learned.)

Ron Silliman Dream # 9 (Batch 2, dream 1): Japan

Ron and I are in a plane. An old one. A bomber, and we’ve got a bomb in back, and we’re headed for Japan I guess.

“Ron,” I say. “Shouldn’t we talk about this?”

“Listen, you prick,” he says. “This isn’t a little Haiku joke or sitting down to blog.”

“Yes, that’s what I mean,” I reply. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

But Ron’s shaking his head like a frustrated ape.

“You don’t understand a thing, do you,” he spurts out, and he’s all red and purple and he’s practically foaming.

“These people don’t even write poetry any more,” he fumes. “All they do’s sit around and watch Robert Hass movies.”

“You know,” he continues, choking up, “they don’t even know who I am. A recent poll showed that only 4 people in the whole of Japan know who I am and in the fullness of time you know that’s only going to get worse. Much worse.”

“In 30 years what is my legacy going to look like?” he continues, whining. “O, Bob Hass. Bob Hass. Bob Hass”

But then, suddenly, he snaps out of his funk violently.

“These bastards need to die,” he screams. That’s all the fire he’s got though——and all he manages, now, between fits of sobbing, is “need to die, need to die” in a very low, eerie murmur.

I roll down the window, and float out.

I’m coming in towards my house and I’m wondering if my Love Birds’ eggs have hatched yet. I’m suddenly really worried about them.

Ron Silliman Dream # 10 (Batch 2, dream 2): Dolls

I walk into the game room and Ron’s on the floor playing with dolls.

“Do you know,” he says, as he glances up, “that Chaucer played with dolls. Coleridge too. Basho and Ikkyu. And when Berg translated that crazy monk he played with dolls too. Sometimes all night.”

Silliman pauses and stares at me profoundly and then adds, “A kind of method acting, ya know.”

“You’re making this shit up, pal,” I tell him, as I softly punch his shoulder. (and I’m thinking how nice it is to be so chummy.)

“This’ll prove it,” he says, passing the phone to me——and it’s a voice as though on a loop, repeating over and over

“Stevie Berg here.. Stevie Berg here.. Stevie Berg here.. Stevie Berg here.. Stevie Berg here..” etc etc

Finally, I interrupt: “Do you play with dolls, Steve? Ron says you do.”

“Come on over,” another voice replies (different from the one on the loop). “ And I’ll show you.” And it hangs up before I can say anything else.

Ron and I are trudging along a beach. There are beat-up dolls everywhere.

“These are all Stevie Berg’s,” Ron says, beaming.

And sure enough when I pick one up, and look closely, the proof’s right there on its ass in still-shining blue ink

“Stevie Berg’s.”

Ron Silliman Dream # 11 (Batch 2, dream 3): Cactus

I’m sitting on a rock with God. Below us in a field of cactus a naked Ron Silliman is scurrying after a rabbit.

Again and again it looks like Ron’s about to nab it but he either mistimes his final leap or the rabbit’s too slick and he ends up in cactus. Usually face-first.

But, a couple of times, tumbling over, it’s ass-first. All credit to Ron, though, he’s diligently and painstakingly removing all the needles (sometimes with the help of a mirror he’s produced from who knows where.)

I look over at God. He’s blank-faced.

“Are you upset, disappointed, disillusioned...?” I ask.

“O, no,” he says, “I’ve seen much worse.” And for a moment it looks as though a smile’s flickering across his tough face.

Meanwhile, Silliman’s back in cactus.

“Ouch!” I exclaim. “That was a bad one.”

“You know,” God says, “he really does have a very good heart.”

“You’re probably right,” I mumble, “but the problem with Ron is that he has absolutely no f-cking sense of humour.”

And now, I am sure, God is smiling.

Ron Silliman Dream # 12 (Batch 2, dream 4): Core Strategies

The crowd all around me’s going nuts and I climb into the ring. Ron’s in my corner, and he’s screaming:

“Remember what I told you, son, remember what I told you.”

Yeah, yeah, I’m thinking. This is going to be a piece of a cake. A piece of cake. A real piece of cake.

“Just go East,” Ron’s booming. “Just go East.”

My opponent’s entering the ring, the crowd’s gone silent, and, damn, he is f-cking enormous, with a Mohawk, earrings and studs. And he’s leaping around the ring like a jack-hammer.

And, O no!——the crowd’s started chanting “The hammer.”

“The hammer. The hammer. The hammer.”

And now the ring announcer, a fat version of Michael Buffer, introduces my opponent as the “All-Time King, Bill ‘the hammer’ Snakely.”

I’m getting pummeled. Snakely’s all over me. Nothing helps. I even try reciting the opening to Chaucer’s Tales:

“Whan that April with his showres soote
The droughte of March hath perced to the roote” etc etc

No help.
Ron’s screaming, Bill’s hammering, I’m bleeding.
I am going to die, I think. I am going to die.

But then a tiny little voice comes to me like a water-lily: remember the core strategies of abstraction, son. remember the core strategies of abstraction.

And I am expanding. I am burning. Nothing can stop me. I am all-powerful. Snakely is nothing !!!

Monday, November 3, 2008

Ron Silliman Dream # 13 (Batch 2, dream 5): Tolstoy's

My wife and I have been invited to dinner at Tolstoy’s. We arrive two minutes late and I’m concerned.

Ron Silliman, the butler, answers the door, and he looks a bit pale.

Approaching a huge, bear of a man, Ron the Butler squeaks out: “Senor Tolstoy, may I present Rauan and Edith Kl——“

But before he can finish, Tolstoy, who’s lurched forward at least 10 feet in one giant bound, slaps him in the face.

“You impertinent bastard,” he growls. “In this house you will learn some respect... Yes, sooner or later you will learn some respect.”

At dinner while trying to reposition my wife’s butter knife Ron knocks over a wine glass and Tolstoy’s grabbed him and thrown him up against the wall.

“You filthy dog,” he’s screaming. “You filthy dog.”

“I like these two, “ my wife says. “I want to see more of them. Buy them for me, darling. O, please, buy them for me. O, please, please, please say you will!”

When, finally, I look back Tolstoy and Ron are dancing to a slow Big-Country song and Ron’s burrowing his head into Tolstoy’s chest and he seems to be sobbing.

“Old woman Time and her slaughtered chicken,” I pronounce gravely.

“F-ck you, Charles Simic,” Ron blurts out, and they’re both glaring at me quite ominously and now I feel like I’m The Little Prince and I need, desperately, to apologize to my 9th French Grade Teacher for calling The Little Prince an idiot and tell her I didn’t mean it though I did mean it.

Ron’s sobbing even harder now. And I’m feeling very guilty.

“I didn’t mean any of it,” Tolstoy assures him. “I didn’t mean any of it, Ronny. None of it at all, my boy.”

Ron Silliman Dream # 14 (Batch 2, dream 6): Gorgeous

I’m walking through tall, dry grass and suddenly Ron Silliman’s whispering to me:

“Remember when the days were long
And rolled beneath a deep blue sky”

I look around but I’m completely alone and, so, I keep on shopping. But when I reach for a carton of eggs

“But I know a place where we can go
And wash away this sin”

Again I look around——but, alas, nothing.

Then, while I’m unpacking, reaching deep into the sack for a bag of asparagus

“We’ll sit and watch the clouds roll by
And the tall grass wave in the wind.”

Again I look around and this time I notice a note on the refrigerator: “Come upstairs”--- and there are candles all the way upstairs and then down the corridor and all through the bedroom. I knock on the bathroom door:

“Come in, baby. It’s Ron. It’s Ron.”

And, there, rising out of a mountain of bubbles is the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen——a bit like Botticelli’s Venus, but so much greater...

Stepping into the steaming hot bubbles I take her, giggling, in my arms...

“Who knows how long this will last
Now we’ve come so far, so fast
But, somewhere back there in the dust
That same small town in each of us”

Ron Silliman Dream # 15 (Batch 2, dream 7): So Much Fun

Ron comes running up to me over the dunes. He’s had his hair braided and, Christ!, I had no idea his hair was so long and so exquisite and so shimmery (maybe’s he’s got extensions?) and it’s billowing and bouncing and he’s getting closer, and closer...

“My God,” he says, panting. “I thought you were lost. I thought I was never going to find you.

I drop him off at his hotel and he throws his arms around me and kisses my neck.

“I had so much fun,” he sighs.

I walk into my office where a fax’s unfurling——

“I am so happy, Ron” it reads, and below that a couple of confidently drawn
heart-shapes ——

The phone’s ringing. It’s Ron:

“I need to see you. Where are you reading next? St. Louis? Chicago? Borneo? I don’t care, wherever——I’ll be there with bells and whistles on.

I’m feeling giddy. It’s so nice to be pursued like this. And Ron must be able to sense this. This is what the phrase “meant for each other” must mean I think.

“O, Rauan,” Ron purrs. “I just want to make you happy. I’ll do anything you want. Anything at all. Just please don’t kiss and tell,... O, hell, I don’t care——go ahead and kiss and tell... I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I am obsessed. You are my North, my South, East, my fcking West. My working week. Damnit, Rauan, I have stopped all the clocks, Rauan. I have cut the dog. I have silenced the pianos. And love, my love, Rauan, is not going to die! It will last forever. It will last forever. I am the stars, Rauan. The packed-up moon, Rauan. This mantled sun, Rauan. These circles moaning. Public doves. Black cotton gloves. O, Rauan!”

Ron Silliman Dream # 16 (Batch 2, dream 8): Rough, Really Rough

Ron Silliman approaches me in a bar.

“I like it rough,” he says. “I like it really rough.”

As quickly as we’re talking we’re rubbing up against each other.

“I want you to shit in my mouth,” he says.

At first I was turned on, incredibly so, but now he’s saying things like “I want you to stick a steak fork in my shoulder while we’re fucking” and “baby, you can rub vinegar into my asshole while I’m blowing you——and don’t let my screaming stop you.”

“There must be some sort of mistake,” I tell him. “I’m not interested.”

He looks baffled, then really offended.

“But I heard you were cool,” he says. “Zach Schomburg said you were really cool.”

I’m puzzled.

“Yeah,” he continues. “Zach Schomburg said you were tough. Really tough.”

He’s right in my face now and his breath smells terrible.

“Zach Schomburg,” I mutter, almost incoherently.

“Yeah, Zach Schomburg,” he shoots backs at me, almost spitting through his teeth. “The kid you went to high school with. The kid whose dog threw up over everything.”

“O,” I tell him, remembering a poem I read a long time ago, “You’re talking about David Berman.”

“I am not talking about David Berman,” he growls. “I am talking about Zach Schomburg, and Zach Schomburg’s never steered me wrong.”

(note: this dream first appeared in Blake Butler's Lamination Colony)

Ron Silliman Dream # 17 (Batch 3, dream 1): Seven More

I’m in a conference room with Ron Silliman. He leans back in his big red-leather chair, creaking.

“We’re done, Rauan,” he says, and now he’s up at a chalkboard.

“Well, almost done,” he continues. “You’re going to have seven more dreams about me, and that’s it.”

“But, why Ron, why?” I plead, hot tears gushing down my cheeks. “Hasn’t this been good for you?”

“Yes, yes it has, my darling,” he replies softly. “Lately I’ve got an extra bounce in my step."

"It's like...It's like..." he mutters, "It's like I’m permanently on Viagra. I’ve never felt better.”

“But then why, Ron, why?”

“I’ve started to wake up in the middle of the night,” he says (with a tortured look on his face, like a frightened dog), “and I’m covered in sweat and I know you’re dreaming about me and I’m filled with an impending sense of doom.”

Ron pauses, looks down at the ground, trembling all through his body, and then he continues——

“...Other times I’m making sweet love to my wife and that same corroding-poison floods my mind and heart. Rauan, I want to. O how I want to! I swear on a big fat Buffalo’s head: I want to! I want to! But we just can’t go on.”

It's quite obvious he's a broken-man. A used-up old coal-horse.

So, “Fair enough,” I tell him, resigned.

“But seven more dreams, huh?” I add, looking up at him coyly.

“Yes!” and he’s perked up right away.

“In the first one,” he says. “I’ll be licking your toes.”

“In the 2nd we’ll discover the North Pole together...”

“In the 3rd, boil potatoes...”

“In the 4th———”

Ron’s glowing, ecstatic, and he shouts out:

“Christ!! Why did I ever learn to count to seven ??!!”

And, then, like a King or a Clown or a Magic-Lizard, he rises up in a cloud of swallows.

Ron Silliman Dream # 18 (Batch 3, dream 2): The Mountain

I’m waking up slowly and I’m stretched out against my red and purple sheets like a cat and I am sighing, like the sun rising and setting, and, as I crack my one good eye open, I see that Ron Silliman’s sucking my toe. But my toe’s much bigger than normal——It’s the size of a really big banana, or perhaps more accurately three big pomegranates stacked on top of each other.

And, hell!——this is heaven. And hell!——Ron’s a pro. He must have done this a billion times. But then, all of a sudden, he hops up and walks into the bathroom and——O My——standing there in the doorway he’s young Paul Newman in “Cool Hand Luke.”

“I can’t do this any more,” he says. “I’m bored.”

So, I’m helping him pack up his stuff. All his Bee-Gees and Lionel Ritchie LPs. His hope chests full of Lalique nudes and Wild West Chia Pets. Kimonos covered with African Art (all bought, he told me, from the royalties from his first book).

We’re sitting on the grass together. The sun’s setting. It feels like Creeley and Olson in a diner after talking all night.

“How does the mountain die?” I ask.

“It dies,” Ron intones. “It dies.”

Ron Silliman Dream # 19 (Batch 3, dream 3): Whale Wars

Ron and I are watching “Whale Wars” together.

The best part’s when we’ve finished up the popcorn which Ron’s prepared in his adorable little French Maid outfit (wiggling his ass the whole exquisite time) and we’re cuddling together on our snow-white bear skin.

Meanwhile, our heroes are hot on the Japanese tail—— maneuvering beautifully and dangerously through the floes.

But the screen goes all white-fuzzy and Bob Hass, a young Bob Hass, comes on, and announces: “Now I am going to read some Haiku from my new Harpoons-Book “Killing the Big Fat Blubbering Ron Silliman.”

Ron, in my arms, has gone stiff as a roach.

“Whalingly Black Macho Ron O
We’ve come so far damned wrong———
Puked up Ice—Glass—Shattered Black-veined God.”

“Wow!” I exclaim, “He sounds like Aase Berg.”

But Ron doesn't answer, because, I see, he's frothing all through his body like a stomped-on roach.

“Ye Old Black Time-Heart Sky
Blubbering Ron Whale Swimmingly
Swooooooosh——Fat Bob Hass Death!”

I can’t see anything at all now except for Ron’s roach-froth which has spewed out and dissipated into and around everything: a kind of mist I’m walking into, bellowing out, like a foghorn--"Ron, Ron, Ron”

And I bellow and I bellow and I bellow but all the fog offers back to me is one final Death-Throes verse:

“Whale-Musk-Puke Spouted Love
Ass-custard bright-green Death
Soups and statues, slurp slurp slurp.”

And nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Just fog.
And my grief.

My lonely foghorn's grief-cry

“Ron, Ron, Ron.”

Ron Silliman Dream # 20 (Batch 3, dream 4): Opportunity of a Lifetime

We’re at a Burger King shoving down french fries and Ron looks up at me, all forlorn. When he does this, like Bambi's eyes in a snowstorm, I always want to cry.

“I’ve done it,” he says. “I’ve taken the job.”

“What job?” I ask.

“I’ve thought about this long and hard and, really, it’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask again and by now children, thousands of children, have gathered around us.

“Can’t you see,” he says. “It’s fate.”

And, now, all the kids are droning like zombies.

“All of time,” he continues, “every bit of it has been pointing into this moment.”

The droning’s getting higher and higher and they’ve hoisted him——my Ron!!——up on to their shoulders.

“Adieu, mon ami, mon chere ami,” he waves, cavalierly, as the horde, disappears——still shouldering him, My Ron!!——into a bright red cave.

Ron Silliman Dream # 21 (Batch 3, dream 5): The Center

“In the center of time there is a black hole.”

I’m alone, drifting. I can see nothing, feel nothing. It’s as though I’m in a kind of giant universe-womb and I’m in thrall to this queer and wise voice, which, it seems, is delivering me.

“In the center of time there is a black hole and everything——your love, desire, the beaks of egrets in the river, monkeys and sunflowers, the blackheads on your face, everything, everything——points into this one true center of time.”

I feel so relaxed. Like I’m getting a massage. But terrified also. Here, I think to myself, the blood gets stripped away. Here, I think, the mountains sway.

“Here in the center of time,” the voice continues, “you must stop kicking. Here the fire and the ice twist together like a DNA coil.”

This feels like pre-coitus, in-coitus, and post-coitus. This feels like everything.

“Here everything in the center of time is created and destroyed. Here, my love, I am making you, and I am loving you.”

“Huh?” I think to myself, “This is stupid. This is so damned fucking stupid.”

...I’ve dropped out of a hole. A woman’s screaming. A man in white’s slapping me on the back. And I am filled with breath-light. I am burning. I am alive. I am dead.

“Go forth into the world, my love. Go forth!”