By: Brian Barbeito

In the morning the brightness tried to come through the drapes though there was a thick thread count.The drapes were a dark gray, the sheets white and orange- with small shapes- gaily dancing atop- always so happy to be there, to have been created and put there, like shapes on a pillowcase that wait to help rest the head- the pillow is rest for the head and the shapes food for the mind. There was a reading lamp- old but sturdy- better than the new things all!– didn’t the man read a book once about another man that bought all new things only to find out they never worked as well as his old things? And the man devoted writing to explain that that was not all!– he missed the nuance and cracks, the misfit parts and blemishes if you will, of the old things. (my love the oddities of your nose might be what makes you. it has nothing even on the slight and grand and holy curvature of your soul…) Outside the cold held its footing and stayed at minus 30 degrees Celsius. Cold, thought the man. The woman was sleeping, dreaming peculiar forests where cool liquid giraffes, young and colored green- prance alongside long terra cotta parapets. Yes, and then she turns and opens eyes. It’s too cold, says the woman. In the morning, it is too cold. The night held the wondrous dream world. The man dreaming something about a cat, a group of people travelling, an odd but wise woman- but the impression of it all was more important than the content- the impression was of fullness, richness, a sort of dynamic tranquility and atmospheric ease in movement yet. In the morning the brightness tried to come into the room- but the drapes held it out- holding the cold out somehow at the same time- or this signpost of the reality that might try and steal the couple’s languid life of night, their psychic armor and amour, concomitant. One day we will dream and find the dream has become real- pinching ourselves we will be surprised. There will be friends on the shores waving as we arrive- the boat, a blue and white affair, golden also somehow in the sun, arriving- arriving, arriving. The shore- do you know what it is?– it is ourselves- we are arriving to ourselves and the journey is over- that part anyhow-… someone puts out the fenders- the plastic boat fenders- and light glistens on metal or chrome…do you know the right sailor’s knot?– no worry my love- I do-Let me show you- and this is most important in a way of all,– that I can do something, that I know something, that I am competent, that I deserve your love…let me make you proud, electric light queen woman!– that I have chosen… here…let me show you- this way. Hopping with dance in the step, we will see that home like a castle in the distance is quiet- yellow birds and sparrows and the pathways in back- we could go there- WILL go there, but you know hon.,- (I love it when you call me ‘Hun’ or the other way around- its daring to love in the world you know?, but that is what I like about you- you never cared about what the world thought…)-we could sit on the parapet instead- and watch the day- there go the friends- to their own happily silent castles- and we sketch a book- called ABODE-(The Silent Castle That is Not a Castle But is Our Castle)-BY HAYDEN AND KARA POMEGRANATE, ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOSHUA NATHAN- it’s about a couple that rescue the marginalized animals- injured, in need, suffering…-I see you there- I never bellied or believed or bought their lie!-their subterfuge- what lie?- Don’t be sentimental!- who said that? Who said such? – hang that man, lol! – And I look at dimples and almond eyes- ‘Je t’aime,’ I say Je t’aime…’ Oh, in the morning- Go Go away, and morning, hey, rain on us another day, gods of sky and gods of why, prolong the night that we might fly, to astral worlds, where giraffe hair curls. And we look again for somnolence but can’t find its grace, the night being over.