a bottle of lavender…

this lover gave me a bottle of lavender…keep it on the nightstand next to my bed…open it up and allow it’s magic to penetrate the room…the smell of oil puts me to sleep…a deep sleep where i dream of past lives and present deaths…the passings of my mom and dad…

in these dreams i wonder where they’ve gone to…a fourth dimension hovering ‘bove the earth…waiting for all their kin to come home ‘fore moving on to a final destination…a hen waiting for it’s chicks to hatch i guess…my father puttering ’round in a shop…cutting and nailing wood…waiting as well…wanting this family to all be as one again…but…were we ever…

the american myth of family being close…counting on one another…loving each other…all of us fitting-in to some kinda pattern…Friday night football games…marching bands…Easter Sundays…Santa Claus…these myths are comfortable growing-up…then they unravel…

you realize that maybe you don’t like high school football games or marching bands playing songs on green fields under the lights…perhaps there isn’t a Jesus that arose from the dead…no Santa Claus either…could be your parents weren’t always what you thought they should be…a chance that you didn’t quite make the grade growin’ up in this land of milk and honey…the american myth…hard work makes you happy…says who…

and i dream of these past lives…nights in New York high as a kite and walking ’round Washington Square Park looking at women…art students taking pictures…protesters singing songs…a man playing piano in the colors of the fall…

i dream these dreams…then i awake and place the lid back on the lavender…and start my day…dreams…myths…being conscious in the unconscious…alive in america…

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