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Night. A dreaming figure, curled up into an egglike shape; her soul rises up, winged, toward the moon.  Click to enlarge.

From Chris Wayan's dream-journal
(begun 1990, but many drafts over the years)


No Man is Island, so Men say--
I am not a Man:
Rock drowned in saltest Dreams
of Animals who Name.

I was not born Human. I was born Shaman.
Creatures and worlds you call dreams
Swim, sweet, around me.
Your mainland's below my Horizon.

Faint seismic echoes of my Kin
I hear in Deeps.
Knit in the Mantle, we're
Fur on Earth's back--

God's a small nosy animal.
A sphinx labeled 'God'; the tips of her frizzy hair fray into tiny creatures, labeled 'Us'. Click to enlarge. And you and I simply are...
the tips of God's luxuriant fur.
So my link to you is deep,
but I'm a whisker-end,
far from the comfy pelt.
Whiskers get lonely,
and bruised from hitting things first.

My life, like crystal Vines
Crawls on winter Glass
Too wounded by a Breath
For Love or Human Race

Free to bloom I am--
On given Ice Stem.

I'm sohhh precious with my little frost flowers;
but touch me and I melt, I run,
thaw me and I'm gone.
Scrawly ink sketch of a panicked, screaming figure.

Third eyed, hollow drumheart
I lope your streets
Flinch in market, stunned to speak--
Mute press coin and flee--

Life as a fear-bag. Fear-bag.
They give Prozac for it, to the Pros,
but this ain't prose, and they ain't got no Poetzac
to calm this poet.
And I suppose I show it.

Changeling, can I ever love?
How does Isle rejoin?
Fear the only way's the Trench
So Subduction croons--

My analogy's geology:
my only fix is
If an ocean trench recycles me,
there'll be no one to cry for me--
Alone till I die and reincarnate,
I'll never find my changeling mate!
This life is wasted...
Hey, I could be wrong!

Can't I build myself a ship?
Could YOU sail Stone?
Sunset. A small outrigger with a wishbone mast sails toward an atoll on the horizon, below Arcturus. Till Palm and Teak nod over me
I Rock, alone--

Easter Islanders cut all their trees,
then couldn't build boats to sail away from their island bare...
They killed each other and ate.
On my rock, to avoid their cannibal fate...
I plant the seeds floating in on the Great
Sea: of Dreams. Water with tears and wait.
Lush isles take time to grow. Time and tears to grow.

Ask not for whom the Tall Boles:
They grow for me.

Never mind Paul Bowles, a whisker who escaped the face
Never mind old Hemingway's Islands in the Stream
Never mind John Donne--
The tall boles, the bell tolls, the Paul Bowles!
This is not some shaggy-dog poem
Building up to one dumb pun:
That pun was a late, fortuitous Pounce,
Distracting all you Gullibles from a crazy castaway's dream.
No albatross around my neck,
I do not pester dinner-guests,
I am no Ancient Mariner,
But a simple beast who lost his fur,
And rears before you here.
Humanity, be glad you are!
It's easier by far.
A hand reaching out of the water.

And you... the few... like me, outcastaways.
Grow your dreamseeds every night,
And learn to navigate NOW.
So when you sail your life-canoe,
You'll voyage, not blunder.
But sail before your isle erodes,
And the green

And now for a completely unrelated poem!


No man is Island, so Men claim.
Then why that Skull wash round your Brain?

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