Return to A glimmer in my eye (thing)

i have been under the world
where in the black reflection you see empty windows,
the tilted faces and tired shoulders of travellers,
even when they get home [I have been enslaved to imaginary Berlins my whole life.|they are travelling in their dreams],
walking back to where they will go tomorrow, to the underworld,
to the open maze of infinite detail, the unceasing entropic singularity
[She dreamt she was a bulldozer, she dreamt she was alone in an empty field|of sound and walking and doors], ventilation and garbage,
water in the gutter, left turns, motion, faces

In the dream the apartment entrances are horizontal slats and plastic,
like an abandoned construction site or a paintball course,
one stair up and the other down, past a small locked gate at the road level,
down a tight stair into a bright windmill world of white adobe walls and crossbeams
where glass panes framed in mahogany expose patches of a hidden valley,
a small room at the bottom where warm water is falling from the ceiling,
down the wall across my fingers, into a metal drain in the floor,
a small neck-sized chimney with another small view (of the sky),
and the door in the wall separating this hidden garden from the city
is false, and cannot be entered.

dizzying and insane. every moment there are a thousand moments.
four birds fly up from behind a bus. an aisle of trees
which almost feels like an overdone facsimile of home,
a man sells what might be jewelry, a woman sells pretzels,
a jogger, a businessman, an old man who does not know where he is,
a blind man with a woman on his arm, a cyclist, a guy on a bicycle,
a young man in baggy jeans lying face down on the [sidewalk]
his small battery-operated stereo blaring an inch from his obscured face

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ikAb-NYkseI|at any moment]
the curtain might be brushed aside
and appear a face with a mischief smile
saying Now we can share that place and time
on an island perhaps where the waves are crashing
and the rocks are searching for a lighthouse, or a foghorn

the crush of people does [you, radiating out among the crush of people|not] radiate, but instead flows
forever inward strings of faces and postures and cell phones crossing streets
pushing wherever, a contagious drive crossing between cars
standing a little bit farther out

the tunnels are full of howling and blackness,
their edges are twilight morning, frozen sliding piles of rock,
inches under and around the sides of bridges, the halffoot gap to the platform,
forming unusable spaces between the rails and the trees,
full of [I must document these irrelevancies. I must photograph this rubbish.|such useless captivating detail], discarded warped metal brackets,
cars ripped open in long past violence, fallen cables, graffiti

and the underworld is the false night that separates the concrete
steel alleys and avenues and the people
                                                                  from the quiet, the birds
(birds which out here are the only sound, [we blame the air when we should blame the leaves|aside from leaves]),
from lying on grass that tickles,
from having more than ten feet between you and any other human being,

at a church garage sale by the sea, on a table with some old computer monitors and
an old filing cabinet, are a couple gorgeous leather dog collars,
the outer side embroidered white-on-black or red-on-white [on the other table, one in pastel|lettering]
"OBEY YOUR MASTER" and in this parking lot of this church all i can think is
man what a great fashion accessory these would be,
you know if a choker seems [you could really grab one of these|too delicate]

and the marshes, stands of green reeds and egrets standing watch over the pools
reflecting today's grey sky, it's not raining yet, [your veil across the stars|i think from the window],
thinking Now that dream house is real,
it's just over there~

a glimmer in the stars, your veil across my eye

Existing:


Non-Existing: