dream: graffiti tenement

My parents and i moved into a tenement billed as artist spaces. The walls are thin, the music is loud, and the halls change every day as new tag and scenes are sprayed on every day, and every night someone whitewashes the halls. It is the ultimate compliment if a work survives a night of whitewashing. The halls teem with teenagers, and feel like a sort of highschool. One day, as I'm in the hall outside my door, looking at the new things on the wall, the kids around me signal to each other, giggle, scream BABY! and run away in all directions.

Immediately getting that something just happened, I chase one of them down. He tries to hide behind some standing file-cabinets in a niche, but I squeeze them until he is forced out. I grab him, and try to force him to tell me what "Baby" means. It is a game of silent-treatment, meant to make a new kid breakdown and cry like a baby. I make it into a game of tag. After capturing each one, I mark their doors.

The whitewashers decide to keep my marks above their doors over night. Somewhere along the way, I realize that I am not the hero, but rather, I am the villain. The game devolves from tag, into a brutal hunt, where I watch the doors of my targets all night, and start employing tazers, bolos and traps.

Puddle Cutter

I remember my cherry red cracked trike and I
cutting figure 4's and 8's
on sheets of clear fallen eyes

Pedals whetted and wheeled on squeaky streets
broad strokes and stray s-s-smears
turn spots of grey to skies again

Round rubbered tires, trite and true
giggled grand geysering oceans
and tickled flat clouds to piece

I walk the graven streets of sheeted sky
Mirror bright shoes stepping nimble
and dry as my umbrella hitched arm

Cracking a secretive glance around
I cut a puddle through to ground.