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I am vaguely aware of being unconscious. Iím driving fast over the Ben Franklin. Someone removed the stoplights and I am alone on the roads tonight. Night time is thick now but everything is lit from the moon. Iím not in my truck at all. Iím in some fast car that really tears it up. Iím sliding around the curves by the Art Museum.

The bricks of that building pulse from black light that is pulsing down from the stars. The pulsing light lights up my car too. The cops are out but they donít seem to recognize my car and donít know what to do, so they canít catch me. They try for a few blocks but they canít keep up. Everything is hot too, like the daytime here. Iím glad this isnít Collingswood because Collingswood seems even hotter. I donít know exactly where I am but I know that I should know the route. Even though I canít think where it will take me

Then I get onto 76 which is a highway and floor it up over two hundred. Each time I hit a patch of dirt or daisies, the car slides a little to the outside. I am always turning, turning, turning, holding on, breaking, accelerating into the apex. Even in the long straight parts Iím recovering from the last turn and peeling into the next one.

Boathouse row is a bright blur that spills down the Schukill river. Thereís no sound of course and Iím not myself anymore which makes me think I can go faster. I start looking for a spot. Iíll know it when I see it. I take the zoo exit. Itís around the corner and Iím almost there now. I can smell something burning which is exactly what Iím looking for but I canít see it yet. Then the engine stops and I pull over; one tire on the curb even though thereís no one parked close or on that tight blind road. Iíve lost the power steering.

When itís still I can see smoke pumping out of the hood like a bomb touched off. I pop the hood and the metal is red hot when I pick it up but it doesnít burn my fingers. My fingers make dents and the smoke clears like Iíve hurt it. The engine is knotted up and broken down the middle where the last of the smoke is. The smoke is what I smelled and the broken engine is what I was after but I am disappointed, waiting here on Martin Luther King Junior Boulevard.

I look at the balloon that hangs over the world's smallest zoo. I know I have figured something out, but it slides like smoke and Iím already tired again.

You wish.

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The following comments are for "Meta-Dream"
by paperbackwriter

complex, almost psychedelic in nature, this "dream" and presented with greater effect than " Vine Street, Philadelphia", you can see how one piece evolved out of the other...

this still has a raw, slightly unnerving quality to it, but its trance-like state is better measured and this allows the reader to absorb each individual idea and image and not become overwhelmed by the whole...

and there are some wonderful lines of inventive and imaginative imagery. coupled with the adrenalin-fuelled pace, this makes for a powerful piece of writing.

( Posted by: AuldMiseryGuts [Member] On: July 5, 2007 )

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