Box of Dream Stuff
I
On the water in the pickup truck
he plays his American tricks.
High above the kayaks
time slows and it is too late to scream
when only yesterday the dream had me.
It is an itch emblematic.
This ain’t the Mudd Club
& everyone’s forgotten about the baby.
but it’s a season of heavy gray and rain
and we can no longer dance around it
peeling off large sections of head skin.
So I get the urge to break glass
where a wave has propelled us.
He is going to kill someone.
Mama told me not to come
II
Barbarita!
Here at Hugo House thinking
of you &
the rainbow exploded
inside me w/ the essences
Charlie prescribed. Shooting
star indeed. Felt lighter
late last night after
the massage before Jesse
Minkert’s story about living
hairpieces & the responsibility
of their care.
III
Beyond the agony of the garden
in a low-ceiling’d room,
close by a window
above the sitting room
at the corner of Broad and Marshal streets
maybe the sun rising above
or maybe the sun setting
toward
under The Printing Office
under The Sculptor’s Studio
is this where we will see god
or have other visions of divinity
on our way to becoming
obsolete constellations?
IV
How he learned to hurdle
best he could not with dreams
unveiling the shooting star
to the heart chakra and still
earclip celphones
avalanches, waterboarding
but not able to get traction.
An outlaw here as well, reinforced
say Grahhr. GRAHHR!
with every time he hears himself
on the ice, driving, in the dream
and other petroleum fantasies.
past the vast parade
finds a way past viagra
which had not made it
of reason but peeled skin
or a burn past the numb
confederacy
V
Amanda –
OK, no weather,
but no beach either. Why
not grass? Sandburg liked
the work it did after
war.
I liked its cooperation
when the youthful storm
of hormones blew into
my midwest loins.
Yes, we
found the soft golf course
grass and the mosquitoes?
Well, let’s just say they
cd smell blood.
VI
On the water in the pickup truck
Mama told me not to come
he plays his American tricks
he is going to kill someone.
High above the kayaks
where a wave has propelled us
time slows and it is too late to scream
so I get the urge to break glass
when only yesterday the dream had me
peeling off large sections of head skin.
It is an itch emblematic
and we can no longer dance around it.
This ain’t the Mudd Club
but it’s a season of heavy gray and rain
& everyone’s forgotten about the baby.
VII
How he learned to hurdle
or burn past the numb confederacy
best he could not with dreams
of reason but peeled skin
unveiling the shooting star
which had not made it
to the heart chakra and still
finds a way past viagra
and earclip celphones
past the vast parade
of avalanches, waterboarding
and other petroleum fantasies.
but not able to get traction
on the ice, driving, in the dream.
An outlaw here as well, reinforced
with every time he hears himself
say Grahhr. GRAHHR!
VIII
Amanda,
Here above False Creek
(of course) Raven’s wingbeats
keep time aboriginal,
we yearn for a Spring light
distraction as camouflaged
by skin, long to be a water
fall or until that at least
be its uncommon ROAR.
IX
Better an obsolete constellation
than to never have burned
lost in the numb confederacy
the candidates, out their blow holes,
call freedom. I lift my own gift
economy on this urge that rises
goddess up from the perineum
a nutrient manifesting as enthusiasm
but only in a way a crab would recognize,
sideways. Sidereal. The line in the sky
goes from Fa Tsang to William Blake
to Whitman, then Whitehead & Williams
you look Puerto Rican she said, but no
his Cuban mother loving the way he cursed
like an uncle
lleno hasta el borde de ron.