I am windward of the souls in last night’s dream.
I wish at least one would knock at the window.
Morning rain, apples falling in grass.
If you can drag yourself to believe
God’s eyes are “on” this morning
Great things are coming
Water falls on my wrist
As I wash a cup
Wiser than Adam
Knows which road to take
What to eat, who to trust
I am a blind star gazer. Sometimes, looking up I think I see lights. Sometimes I suppose I’m imagining them. In any case, this is the condition of the first sighted beings on earth.
I take this feeling with me into the house.
Clutching a spoon I’m the first spoon man.
Yes I’ve made it at home.
Sure. Tell me to go to hell. You’ve got big things on your mind.
Here I am with dust mote eyes and imaginary stars.
So it comes down to this
Thistles, pepper, water
From the well.
Do you see the luxury
Of the ailment
That is no ailment?
So I go around in the bucket of my skull,
Free will, predestination, foot odors, love life regrets,
Scraps of poems flaring like match heads…
Eleanor Rigby, a dirge in eighth notes.
I love the term, “the ethics of impertinence.”
I’d put the needle on a fast spinning disc
To hear something uncanny: arias and folk songs
Sung by dead people.
The wind up mechanism with its crank…
The hieroglyphs representing humans
Or animals were left incomplete
Or drawn mutilated,
Most likely to prevent them
Causing any harm to the dead pharaoh.
We’ve gaffed the night mateys!
His hands opened
And released harmonic birds.
I used to love a turtle who lived under the boathouse.
Outside I stand on a hill
The breeze presses me forward
There are no words for the green
The slope, the breeze, the man
The epitaph of naming
The envoy wish
For private graffiti.
By the time I was twelve I had a pretty good grasp that Caruso could sing my crippled seasickness, that the arias were little chocolates one minute and dark, packed clouds the next. Think of “e lucevan le stelle” from the third act of “Tosca”—a flawless sweep from pure love to entire despair which occurs in two verses and takes about four minutes.
So I dreamt last night I was writing a poem
Tangled branches were in it, sunlight fell in shafts…
The souls going about their business…