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.