“I have a hunger” –
Those words,
spoken in a formal manner,
were as stillborn, as heavy as a stone
cradled in an apron.
And, what does one do with this thing you’ve said-
you, who were always the comic,
furthest from the dead.
Taken aback,
in slow shock I cup your hand-
not leading you to bed,
but into nightfall’s garden.
We sup on the strange swirl of universe.
~I hung out with the gang from Otherwhere. They had very cool hoverboards and tinfoil suits. Spied on the Navy, we did. Frazzled their nerves a bit. Cat and mouse, haha. They showed me a star map, pointing with their wormy fingers. What a time! They smelled like spearmint gum.~
I dream in hieroglyphics
and ink the walls of caves;
eschew the honorifics,
the accolades, the raves.
It’s all for fun, and all for free-
I’ll never make a buck.
Matter of fact, I’m in the hole,
but still I run amok.
This black eye-
it changes sides some days,
but the worst of the gaze
is when the other side greys.
I travelled with three. One was pure and unnamed, as if it were her first hours on the ground. A second was ambitious, driven, risky. The third I thought of as a tower- strong, aloof, convening with cloud thoughts. In the glow of late afternoon, we watched a rocket explode. The hope of many. Gone.
Image source: The Verge. com
He dreams of things with tattered wings, open mouths, and lolling tongues. Heaven’s impostors, fallen from grace. Thirsting but never slaking, they lie impaled in the pines, their chill voices forbidding all who may think to touch.
Art by Zdzisław Beksiński, untitled.
She watches, bemused, then walks away as I keep up the stirring of the hot pot of milk and cocoa.
I covet that clunk of spoon, milk-muted, because of a recurring dream in which each of my teeth is tapped with a tuning fork. Like a drip on the hot burner, I make myself into a very small world.
The one-room mind has insistent vines and an off-balance floor. Weighted words are thrown with the heft of a hatchet and a boomerang’s promise. In a trial outing, it sees a clove-eyed dog zeroing itself against a young oak, which trembles slightly and drops its curlicue hangings.
Aremyfeetofftheground 