This base life, covered with an ochre coverlet, this dream life, this life of leaves and wounds, this four-poster cloud, which of the golden nightmares is us,----woman?
Is it the sleeper in her ochre coverlet of crowned leafage, a corona to REM on?
Or is it the skeleton of us-to-be, the skeleton of us once-was, the skeletal remains of the dreams we are having?
Is it the bony foreshadowing of our nights?
The dreamer on her pillow is dreaming the dark thoughts of down below, while the skeleton on the upper bunk is holding a bouquet of finest lilacs for the cloudy spring, with the rictus ribald skeleton teeth, its bones hold the dynamite, the wires, the charge. We dream the dark dreams, we optimistic fools we are, while the smiling bone dancers hold the remote to the charge.
You cannot politicize my nights, but yet they are politicized by their own election. Every night the deeper more inner me elects to dream.
(Photo by Susan, self-portrait of her red shoes)