Frowned upon to write about dreams but I want to say how the wild things arrived, hares, wildcats, hawks– not dangerously– estatically. The subconcious colors the world, if neccessary, decadently– It was a tapestry how they came down from the trees, in medias res, the way dreams go, my childhood home, summertime with wolves, no fear, just floating from the same lack of gravity– not obeying logic, but following something, some unnatural orders, and happily
I dreamed a door swept shut and felled a row of empty bottles that didn’t break but scattered about with hollow echoes and you were there saying careless, careless, careless, careless awake again light coils on the floor cool-hued pools of star and streetlamp, making a cold thing colder sleep an uneasy truce
A drowsy thought, how the name sounds like a plucked string, Kyoto– I’ve never been, but have read some Basho– his sad bird calling, air that cracks. Another one of these! Too tired to rest, this less a dream of a place and more a dream of dreaming, of foreign concepts– laquered maples, bamboo groves, and sleeping
I got on the wrong bridge and had to leave town. True story, and more to read there than these dreams– deep water, still water, such a dumb expanse today, a blue stilled tongue, but for what cause? There’s the unease, as cars spill like beads across these spans– to regret is to be on the wrong side of something. Even sleeping now I am chasing it– What? I don’t know. Only that I’ve missed […]
How easily you stepped into my dreams, how easy a presence, although dreams are at best the first pass of an impressionist– colors made sentient, but poor predictors– Nonetheless waking today I feel the urge to fling open the windows and fling open doors and throw a convocation for all those cautious birds, saying this is mine, my treasure, my new call to call! In other words, to coat this fragile thing in brashness, safeguarding easily passing as an act of creation– […]
OPTIONAL POETRY 