Back From the Dead I wake in the morning (no, in the afternoon, I'm lying) to rain, rain all night long (it's such a still sound). The day's dull, the sky covered by a pall of clouds, a day like the ones I come from (a curtain dropping on long empty fields). It reminds me of home, that I loved (hated) and left. Yesterday I told my therapist I'm a liar, I lied once to save myself from being put away (I might lie again). She was surprised, her surprised face, with wide eyes looking like she judged me all of a sudden, her New York past really on her then. I don't know what to tell her. Today the dream I wake from is strange, in my old green house and my mother (you knew she would be in here somewhere) pimping me to a man who had to have me. He would have paid any price, but she sold me for a hundred bucks. We did it on the living room floor, on a mattress she'd laid out (she was watching; my cousin, back from the dead, was watching). On the floor, on the orange carpet, breathing the pissy air, looking out the windows filmed by layers of years, I saw the steel sky beating down (looking like rain, it was watching). He slapped my legs around his neck. A hundred bucks, I thought, that's not bad, I'd do it for that, I think, after waking. In the dream (I bet you've guessed), I liked it, it was fun, I feel warm and comforted now. How strange, such dreams and sunless days.