chant a vanquished harcore chant---laud bone and sinew and cartlidge and unreasonable lust with the language of desire and the solace of surrender--stir an ancient ardour. _____________________ I dreamnt last night in red---not complete red---but shades of red--like--like black and white---only red---different hues of contasting shades of red---but red--and it made sense---and i don't remember dreaming in colour ---do we dream in colour?---but this time it was in colour---red---as if it were a film negative---pictures---it mades sense, but it was red.---not a blood thing, or an anger thing---just a clour---red---instead of black and white---of course it must mean something---but what---what---red. I don't remember what the dream was about---it wasn't abnout anything, you understand, a story or something--but i remember red. I awoke this morning from the red dream suddenly thinking of Jen's back, the peaceful flow of her flesh as she dressed in the morning. A memory of a beautiful moment. A moment engulfed in the labrynith of the mind that makes a man. One of the myriad of images that plays delightfully in the mind through the course of existence, cascading wonderfully in the cacophony of life. Unreasonable moments that cannot be eradicated by age. That I state hopefully. For i imagine that it is images as these, of Jen's beatiful back, that fill the mind of the elderly as they stare out bleak November nursing home windows in the final wheezing breaths of life. For it is these images that compose out lives. These images unencumbered by time and consequence, but pure, simple, offering joyful solace. It is the collective gathering of these sort of images that compose the poem that is a human's life. It is the poem that fills the vacant space that silence provides, that thrives in the solace of surrenber, when the exigencies of the pale, render us insipid, worn out, like ancient chants, causing the spirit to soar......