Poetry

Sleep

I dreamed of it. Blanketed beds in an attic that was mine and not mine. A loft in the loft, narrow ladder-stair ascending to one final bed. Sleep upon sleep, comfort upon comfort, and there in confusion stood I. The woman I adore stood there too. I don’t know how she got inside, but she followed me close. I awoke, and she sat in my several liminal thoughts before I drifted back to sleep. The attic again. So many beds. She was near me again. Real life is not so graceful. I looked at a bed, and it was a conduit. I awoke again, for just a second, and I swear I still felt her. Back to sleep. Back to the beds. We did not lay ourselves down – my dream avoided this – but we stood, so close, that I wish this place would appear for real. When I woke up for good, she was not there. She had retreated to that attic in my thoughts, to the hidden loft in my brain, where she sleeps in the highest bed and dreams of me, standing near a bed in an attic in her mind.

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Poetry

A Rumination on Imbalance

The powerful hoard power, and
the influential wield influence.
Things oscillate but mostly stay the same.
Actually, for most of us,
things just get worse.
The American Dream
is a myth, a lie
whispered in back rooms
and murmured
at garden parties.
Where these gardens are situated,
I do not know.
I have little power, and I
wield little influence.
The only keys I possess
are in my bones,
and I don’t think I could
headbutt a door open.
Nor could I pick a lock;
I’ve had no time or energy
to learn such delicate skills.
All my days
are tally marks barely adding up
to cover rent.
Tasty food is a luxury.
Every game is too much,
and every book
is a gift to myself.
I’ve already beaten this horse into a stupor.
If we get enough of us together,
and wrench bricks from the bottom,
do you think we could
topple these fucking pyramids?
I want to see them
laid to rubble,
for their bubbles of rich waste
to be exposed.
No more hiding;
come into the light,
you gross fat cats.
Your bones shall make fine chairs
for all of my friends.

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Poetry

And God said

Dawn peeks red from the firmament
and I
am clutched by nightmares
dark and dreary.
Would that the sun
could drive away the demons,
I think
amid the laughter of the morning star.
Shadow, flame, the lightshow
of existence;
hell’s lantern stands tall
and its eerie candescence
illumines crises.

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Poetry

Unreal

In the dream,
she let me borrow her console.
We walked to her house
to make dinner.
I met all her brothers
in the living room,
and I didn’t have to learn their names yet.
Her dad passed by and said “We’ll see
you in the morning. We’ll have breakfast.”
Her mom threw a cat to me,
and I caught the cat.
The cat struggled, then snuggled.
I freed the cat.
The boys filtered into our room.
We wandered back to the living room.
She wore gloves beneath our blanket,
and when I reached for her,
her hand started fidgeting.
Her sisters sat with us,
and I listened as they talked.
Everyone meandered on their way,
and she leaned into me
and asked “What do we do now?”
I had no idea, so I said
“Do you wanna go outside,
find some sticks, and have a sword fight?”
I thought I was reaching, but
she laughed and said “Yes!”
It was the best first date
I never had.

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Poetry

knitting now

the running thread:
plague, the dead;
hucksterism;
get-rent-quick schemes;
guides to the political
spectrometer;
a lack of light in the zeitgeist;
streams, conscious and unconscious;
solar flares and night terrors;
the inflated price of medicine;
walking death, vigor mortis;
the air,
and the weather;
proofs, spoofs, goofs;
health or food,
but they’re in the same system;
overprices everywhere;
profit and prophets;
the end
the end
the

end of finality;
life moves
in signs unseen

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