Under Paul

so this is the dream again.
I keep waking to wet flesh
that ain't mine and I didn't
have nothin' to do with it, I
swear to God she meant 
nothing to me, damn it Chicago
Indians are people, too.

wipe, draw and chastigate
memories of rubber sheets, electricity
something that didn't smell like me
sister father mother
wrapped up in wet towels, electricity
the absorbant kind, the kind
that work as good as the 
cloth ones.  TV. 
Radio.  places we come together as
more than one, less than

paper or plastic, release,
cock the hammer back slowly.
so this is the dream again.

Holly Day