The World a Dream Held Within a Horn

Miles Davis' horn's slashing volcanic metallic through the humid August street heat while my brain bleeds torrents of images, the distance of dreams collide with the waking sleep-marchers--armies of zombies choke freeways and subways--this ant farm beheld by celestial eyes, this maze, this tv with its tits and ass and perfect orthodontic smile lulling the sleepers into a deeper sleep.

Billions of sleepers and no dreams. We have raised a generation who has forgotten how to dream. Dreams made commodity. The great soul insurance scam--the Christ with neon dollar signs above his head. Christie telling me on the train how Ireland had sold its soul and how he'd rather be back fighting in the 'Tan days. There are no more fighters, no more men throwing their fists up into the night. No more Resistance, no more anarchist-saints. The triumph of the free market economy when everything has a price tag and the only question is not if something is for sale but how much.

Was there a time when the mountain streams ran and the mist rose above the peaks, when Han Shan wrote poems on the sides of mountain walls? Li Po--where is your Yangze now?