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2001-06-27 || 10:15 a.m. || punk rock romeo and the lost ring of his true love || at approximately three:twenty-two this morning there was a man screaming on vernon street. after the first time he screamed i promptly tucked him into my dream: he is being attacked by the trees lining vernon street. they are stuffing leaves into his mouth and pockets and he is falling on the asphalt unable to get away. his legs are scraped from the bark and branches. squirrels are sitting on the telephone wires, watching. the man screamed again, this time a long drawn out one. i lifted my head off my pillow to listen. i worried about him. i imagined putting pants on and buttoning up my coat and running out with a pot and wooden spoon to beat to scare the bad guys away. it works for bears. but it got quiet again and chris grumbled and turned over and i pressed up against his back and put the blanket back over my head to fall back asleep. but it happened again, this time a long wailing accompanied by the banging of metal trashcans and jumbled words. words with syllables all roughed up around the edges. scabby and scraped and moist from thick night air and alcohol. he kept repeating 'i have lost the ring of my true love' over and over. i pictured him immediately: a punk rock romeo, hoodie adorned with safety pins, pants that had become an inexplicable color, a culmination of elements and time and punk rock secrets. olde e and blood and the dew from the lawn he had passed out on. his shirt was all wet and his eyes were glossy and electrified. he was weaving as he walked, kicking things when they fell into his path. trashcans. cats. cars. and i could hear him just outside now, along with a woman's voice asking hushed questions. i wondered who that woman was, who would be outside at three-thirty in the morning, who would walk headfirst into that racket and have a conversation with a fairy tale character out of my dreams. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |