it was asheville, 2002. this was to appear in that book, Nudes. it is a poem written about lady and a painting being painted, a few feet away from a little table, and a lost little man scribbling...on an asteroid, on auto pilot. two of 87,000 panes touching...in a singularity neither seen nor heard.
finally...
yep. this mother fucker
should be titled "finally"
although i haven't arrived upon any
conclusion, no destination
has been reached...
but finally...even now
as so many aspects of
my real world hang
in limbo...
i can finally scribble out
the reasons.
the reasons why i lust for
so much...
and the truths that my god
lays before me in these dreams
(pause)________________
______________________
it was this afternoon as it
was also that time that doesn't
exist, except for in the
feelings
which form the borders of
that world in me
-draws the lines in black
that my subconscious fills
in with colors, smells
i can't remember...
and ghosts.
i remind you
that now...as you read
we are all ghosts.
gone but not alone
searching but finding no
home.
lovely.
_____________
i've spent the last five to
seven minutes trying to figure
out how to say what time
it is in spanish.
pointless.
obsessive, i realize that
i know what i know
and leave it at that.
she's painting chicago across
the room from me.
she is my angel tonight.
my angel, unaware...
and she has taken me in.
she's been saying something but
i think not to me...
and everything is fine now-
but it was this afternoon.
i kept waking up to realize
i was still asleep.
i was explaining to fisher
how the dream went-
i wrote notes, i was so proud,
i was still asleep-
i dreamed i woke up and
i had been asleep for
seventeen minutes too many.
i awoke for real, only for a
moment,
i learned that i had actually
thirty eight minutes until
my alarm goes off-
i was uncomfortably,
un assuredly asleep again.
the dream again..i remember
vaguely the notes i scratched.
--on a cinder block wall,
--losing balance
--sand, dust, rubble
--pieces of notebook paper
-striped with random colors
wide stripes, spanning the
width of legal size paper.
soft colors, and those
of flags, but only in wide lines
between ruled lines in place
of sentences and phrases
that should have been there instead.
the rest is foggy now,
i woke up, i dreamed
and it went on like this
for a while,
the rest needs a little incentive
to return to me-
some supplemental brain food.
______________________
_______ ______
i do not care about ice
for my water.
this may mean nothing-
but think about it
it sounds profound,
i do not care about ice
for my water.
there is no sweet,
no bitter which need
the diluting of spirit
by the surrender,
then defeat of density.
i don't care about sweet things
anymore...that's all.
___________________
___________________
she's the same,
no.
she's dressed in the same colour
of her painting-
but it drips, soul runs extra
from the matted surface
that holds the smears of
one single interpretation,
of something felt, while seen
and now gone,
except in that memory -that
observance.
what has become of my dream, as
it would seem that i am now awake-
though touched. extreme
in the center of a room that
my brain's flower could never create
as mine.
damn right we are.
"all professional artists trying
to make a living so we don't..."
real time that i'm part of gives
me actually so little,
because my dreamy eyes-
while gazing a million miles
away and in circles, lose
my ears...and sensitive mind
-miss so much of real time
document. speech. reason
and no reason.
they all blow out the window
my life stares out of...
somewhere there's a big fan.
tired as hell.
No comments:
Post a Comment