Although the powers that be assert
there's nothing here to see,
nor crime in progress
nor blood-spattered aftermath,
I know what learns to love me
in the ultraviolet will move and loom
stochastically and if I choose the numbers,
when I win I'll share the prize,
as we've all thought of someone's birthday
and of perfect birthdays there's a limited supply.
When I see the flaming hoop
and floating shoe and think
of alternating current, half-completed
circuits, splines of hyperbolic cosines
draped on cross ties, then
I precess with respect to stationary stars.
On chains on stakes on film
I walk around an owl then,
from the owl's perspective, backwards.
Each of these poems began with a message delivered to me, either as an image or as an exact string of words, while I was in a hypnagogic state, then continued with my attempts to understand during the subsequent dark hours, days and/or weeks. The repeating dream is real.