Dream Weaver 3.2



My friend Matt wrote about his dream:

Last nights Burrito nightmare: ambulance siren sounds like swarm of referee whistles. I’m covered in tar and have been recently extinguished. I smell ammonia. Someone in a fucking scuba suit is administering an IV to me under my thumbnail. The IV bag is full of scorpions. The dashboard is a Hammond B3.


Burritos are a mind killer. After eating burrito, and before falling asleep, I recite the Litany Against Fear: “I have no fear, for fear is the little death that kills me over and over. Without fear, I die but once.” While I find this useful, I take a small issue with the promise of one death, much as I do the idea that you only live once. I don’t think anything happens only once.

I am reborn daily, and I die each night. I am reborn into dream and die into sunrise, into the eyes of the nuclear furnace that feeds us. Fears fluctuate with these ins and outs of being. An IV full of scorpions is never comforting, but only in scale. We’re covered in parasites. We’re full of parasites. Parasites have the ability to control our thoughts and emotions. How much of who we are is controlled by parasites.

When I was a child I had a chemistry set, which is to say I collected household chemicals and mixed them together at a workbench in our family’s dirt-floor basement until I either ran out of chemicals of something reacted, the smell of which knocked me unconscious. I know the smell of ammonia well.

In my early 20s, I lived with a good friend who’d clean our bathroom with bleach on Saturday mornings. I’d roll around the sweat bleached sheets in psychotic fever, shaking off psychic veils of deckled linen, letting the smell of cocaine roll out of my pores as the monolithic drone of off brand Clorox spilled through a crack in the door.

I consider these strong chemical odors to be more honest than most of the scents we come across. In the same way our animal drives are more honest than flowery emotion, much like Frank Zappa opined when discussing his distaste for love songs.

The thing is, purity doesn’t make a thing better, or healthier. I’d take “Hey this just isn’t working out” over “I’m tired of fucking you, and you sweat too much” any day. But that’s me, a victim of romance culture. Ayn Rand wasn’t right because people have an inherent propensity for greed. That drive is honest but not good. A lot of sexual harassment is honest but not good. Your government is not honest and not good. The sun transcends all of this.

The Sun is honest. We’re the ones who lie about it. A yellow circle with surrounding orange triangles is no way to depict a sphere of constant fission. It is a thing worthy of worship. And so we do. We, the inhabitants of earth. We kill each other to gain its favor, to cordon off more of the Sun’s nutritive light for ourselves, strangling out competition to this end.

Watch the morning glory snap the rosebud’s neck. The climbing stalk of beans pythoning neighbors, its fruit cooked for you. Pure. Non-GMO. Honest, but not good.


About Adam Tedesco

Adam Tedesco is a founding editor of REALITY BEACH, a journal of new poetics. His recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Laurel Review, Gramma Weekly, Prelude, Pouch Powderkeg, Fanzine, Fence, and elsewhere. He is the author of several chapbooks, most recently HEART SUTRA, and ABLAZA (Lithic Press), and the forthcoming collection Mary Oliver (Lithic Press, 2019). View all posts by Adam Tedesco

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