Sending poetry to the world
Dreaming of Tuesday’s
parties, glorious rippling
colors, all manner of
food and gaiety, strangers with
strange stories, big ridiculous hats,
cacophony of singing,
and drunkenness, lots of it
spinning, hours disappearing
under the weight of the night
and slow dancing whispers,
all versions of us
unwilling to believe in a
dawning Wednesday.
I dream so well, so deep,
sometimes I can’t tell the dreaming
from the living. The rooms are both blue.
Have you ever thought you awoke, only to
find you were still dreaming? The clocks
on the wall melt like Dali.
When you say I Love You, the words seem
slow. If I reach out to touch you, will you
still be there, will you still be?
like the empty hollow
growl of a stomach hungry, i lean into the sound of arms wrapping around me
oh i love how shallow
these men can be when confronted by such shiny darkened opportunities
Dreams like
Shadowy walk
ways – dreams
like slipping
quietly through
a glass mirror.
On the other
side, this small
fugacious life
reflects a certain
je ne sais quoi.
Watch your body
like your lover does,
watch your mind
obsess over
smallest things like
dirt under nails.
Recognize yourself at
your soul’s oldest age –
we all have this ability
if we choose it.
no longer even a specter,
your memory has lost edges the way
a dried tear evaporates back into nothing
edges become a mist
elemental, invisible, and
while i no longer recognize you
icy hands move the hair from my eyes
while sleep alone steals time.
i want to be with the summer people
those girls with tangled salted hair
and men with shoulders tanned
want to sit among them with my
brine of loneliness, raise my
head to see the whole troupe crashing
naked toward the tides, moonlight
drenching – one man coming back…
some of our memories
like heavy silt find
a way to drop in a stream
like Haruki Murakami
might slip into a dream
chase a lost love | all
consciousness lost
in bleary
Japanese
mountains…..
with every sleeping breath
a reaching sigh
a thought a desire
sends twisting sheets
into knots.
love lost (and never had)
reappeared in a dream
the same car my driving hand
pounding nervous on the leather
of the steering wheel
while the other
twirled with your left in air
-the space between, unspoken-
fingers of each folding
over again and again
palms pressed and teased
together apart together
until you leave, step outside into
a space of darkness
and i double over myself
in the wrenching realization.
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