Five minutes: that’s the average stretch
for which the pillowed psychonaut
will wander. Such excursions
were chiseled on stone tablets
as early as 3100 B.C. This, the act
of “condensation,” precipitory really–
beads of water on our foreheads,
a rain that has always, already come.
We “go” to sleep. We vacation there,
swaddling ourselves along its dunes
to hear our blood thrash back and forth,
lapping at our little boat. Note how,
in the Upanishads, there are two kinds
of dreams: the mere expression of craving–
I need I fear I want I strain I covet—
and the utter evacuation of the body.
In terms of both dream length and frequency,
the order goes like this: possums, horses,
us–all swept up in the ghosting current
of memorized recombinants, backwater,
all of us dangled in the warm, black air.
Subconscious Oraculum Womb Repression Phallus etc.
Hang, inebriate. Be bright
night cities. Pile
the firmament. Set loose
the stray dogs of orchestra.
Time, after all, can be said to dilate
inside the body, the parietal lobe
flexing its muscle, pouring its oil
like chemical horses, seeking music.