102718 glimmering beads of fatigue glistena round my heart encrusting it like black salt on salmon fastigue dances behind my eyealls fatigue ass fucks my heart with one thorny finger while with his other meaty paw he pushes down on my chest, pinning me to the bed, where i have no desire to squirm. there is only surrender. fatigeu rains down me like old aching hands running their backs down over my head my neck my shoulers ; fear lodges in my breast, a dismayed squirrel--that winter is coming too soon and we haven’t gathered enough nuts is faint resonance on the horizon of awareness; a foul siren song that blends into the ringing of my poisoned ears i’m so tired ____ is the mind killer. the mind killer is ____. looking back at what you’ve written is rthe mind killer, when it makes you think, damn! These are good! And then the next day you refuse to sit through the boring exercise of putting down the words that arewn’t good, because it’s just going to ruin everything, so why not just stop, freeze, encase in amber, wuit while you’re ahead--except you’re not ahead. you, working out there at the great pine lodge, out there under the purple clouds while rain makes sensual sussurations on the hillside, and electric tourists hurry in, flushed with ozone and possibility and magic, smiling, taking off their hats, opening up their chests and giving you their hearts to hold behind the coat check; as they gather and sit at the great oak tables, focused on pancakes and liquid golden light in contrast to the wet cold staurated night, their hearts can have conversations. what toothbrushes talk about at night in the dark beside the sink what hearts talk about in the antechamber. ding! the bell and whirr, the clothesline with their orders. *up!* the yell of cookie, in his white frock, surrounded by a swirling nebula of clanking dishes, sizzles, and the voices of the crew, jangling together and tumbling out into the dining room you got to find that dream, and make it come true! someone says, and punctuates with coffee. i mean i kind of think about that, hugged by my apron, as i bustle back and forth between the counter and their table. i’m a movable tree, their plates and cups my fruit sometimes, i kind of want to say, sometimes your dream finds you, and leads you to itself. sometimes your dream makes you come true. i balance sides of eggs and toast and oatmeal; potatoes, bacon, fruit. sometimes your dream is just the song of a cafe; the din of a diner; sometimes your dream careens down needle-cushioned slopes, under stars and the cold ache of infinity; an owl accompanies your commute; before any other humans are awake, you’re following your dream, on foot, to nowhere in particular; sometimes it mumbles, sometimes it sings. Sometimes it howls, and your heart beats wildly with nameless longing. The big man stuffs his face with waffles and his big watch glints on his big wrist. He makes more proclamations: big, one-sided balloons of wisdom everybody’s heard before. The table nods and smiles; agreement is thrown around like a ball of money. Ah, maybe you’re just jealous. You can’t exactly think what you were thinking. It had something to do with knowing more or less what you’re dream is, or was, and vaguely sort of following it, but realizing that, like an ocean current, its pull is by no means geometry perfect nor predictable. Maybe you’re just not sure this is where you wanted to drift to. Maybe you shoulda had a motoboat, and gone wherever the fuck you wanted. Isn’t that what white people do? Isn’t that our right, our responsibility? A new party comes in, stamping and blowing; they need to be herded to their booth. The center of this group seems to be that young woman you’ve seen before: she’s tall, elegant as the 1920’s. black hair in a bob. A wild smile must have drifted across the scented countryside and settled in her fertile face long ago; it grows there now, like volunteer petunias. She looks around and takes in the room. Her smile, her open face, lit from the inside, takes in you. Of course you are insanely in love with her. This is what you meant by your dream finds you. Or whatever it was you had been wanting to say. Right? Isn’t it? The electricity of being the one to show her and her group of chatting, awake vibrant young explorers practically makes your hair crackle. She says *thank you—* to you!! See? And as you turn to go back towards your next task in the relentless series of tasks that is morning in a charming popular cafe that is literally on the side of a mountain, you see and hear and feel her say, *good morning* to the big man at the big table, and his big return greeting, served like a powerful overhand smash, volleys through your slight, invisible self and leaves you used up, spent, and fibrillating. your heart escapes from your mouth in the form of dry gas. They know each other! Worse, her smile is not polite! They like each other! He made her *light up!* She--in her perfect christmas light bulb beauty--has room in her heart for *him—* that bloviating sportscaster of other people’s lives and *dreams!* How is this possible? Life is unfair. French toast is unfair. Decaf is unfair. The whole thing’s fucked up. Your dream is dancing a jig in the corner, oblivious. It’s *always* happy, that betrayer; it’s always glistening like a trout in the stream behind the back door to the kitchen. You only have a second. Your break is almost over by the time your head stops pounding with lust and jealousy and tingling, intoxicating rage. Overreacting a bit? Been a little on edge lately? Sure. But this is what you meant. This is what you meant about your dream. You’re nothing. She is everything. And that polarity, that charge, that current—that will drive you somewhere. Yeah, somewhere like *crazy,* your dream laughs. The park-bench green screen door slams behind you as you go back in. A crow hollers and takes off, circling far above the back patio, whose planks still glisten with morning dew. But he’ll be back, and so will you.