Coloring You

Funny, the decisions we can make

when we aren’t making decisions:

chartreuse charlatans dancing across fresh stages

cannot combat uncomfortable realities with

their theoretical bathtub myths.

 

Aquamarine quality time sitting astride the mare of the day,

fresh plum wine comes pumping up from nowhere and

we feast on the fragrant remains of this cobalt catastrophe.

 

Sunset comes so unexpectedly to weary eyes.

And in it can be seen such perfect purples

and indignantly precise indigos that I weep.

 

I weep in remembrance of the saffron sleep

I slept as you curled up beside me.

 

Your breath, the smell of your skin on my tongue

and tepid waters of significance we seem to swim in

congeal, almost jokingly, in a cosmic scene

fit only for alizarin Ajax and Tecmessa.

 

My moroseness is not any more than it ought to be

given the utter importance of my impotence of now.

Your milky back camber yearning, urging me on.

Guidance now is given only to the godless submissive.

 

More Dreams

For three nights running I have had the strangest dreams. 

For three nights running I have awakened far too early

as a result of the strangest dreams I have ever had—

and this is precisely why I shouldn’t be allowed

to dream. 

 

You see,

the first one was the first-ever recurring dream I’ve ever had,

and was overflowing with magic:

 

we’re talking about a dreamscape that

includes ever single landscape I have

ever seen, and perhaps a few I haven’t,

all viewed from the top of a hill where

I am an apprentice wizard to a rather

bumbling Merlin, a la Sword in the

Stone, and somehow I am the link

that makes movement between the

world of the magical Merlin-house

and the world of suburbia that it sits

directly on top of—such that should

I find myself driving down a road

I can see both of these weird worlds:

 

one out of the right eye

and

one out of the left eye.

 

Meanwhile, Merlin’s lessons only serve to remind me

that magic is a bonus in life, and it ought to be treated

with respect and humor:

“Never abuse, Mac, or it might wind up abusing you.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Speaking of “Sirs”…

(and for a guy who just generally doesn’t dream

I certainly manage to have some awkward ones.)

 

Imagine a sultry South American somewhere—

away from the bright lights and big cities—

where there are rustic old hotels with balconies of rotting wood

and bars for which the only appropriate moniker would be saloon.

 

Now, inject into this scene my truncated family

composed primarily of my mother, myself and

my father’s father—a motley crew to be sure.

 

I don’t know why,

and I only report it because it’s a fact:

my grandfather went mad

and people were suddenly shooting at him.

 

As a matter of fact, I distinctly remember going into camera mode

and following him down as he jumped from the balcony of our

hotel and hit the ground running—and he unceremoniously

caught two bullets directly in the chest. 

 

Not that this could stop him. 

He cried out:

“I’m American!

You’re gonna have to do better’n that!”

 

Whereupon the invisible gunman put

two more in his face, sending his brain through the back of his head and splattering it all across the window

of an intercity bus—the old-school curvy kind with no air conditioning… you know the one—that had been parked by the sidwalk.

 

My mother’s look of horror I will never forget.

Nor will I forget how she cocked her head to the side,

looked at the window,

spoke to herself in a near whisper and said:

 

“What a curious shade of yellow.”

 

That makes three mornings running

I’ve awakened in cold sweats,

way too early to be ok,

and lain awake wondering for far too long:

 

what could it possible all mean?

 

For some reason,

the in-sink-erator of my mind

is working again,

or malfunctioning again (however

you want it put),

and it’s ever so slightly scary. 

Love Song (Neruda Moment)

There was no moon in the sky:

only the sound of the rain in the night, 

only the sight of me holding you tight,

only the touch of the wind when I kissed your eyes.

The rain fell down softly outside

and I pulled you so close that I was inside,

Feeling your heart skip as lighting flashed by

I tasted your soul as the thunder made us cry.

Trapped in your arms I don't want to be free.

Lost in your eyes, please God, no one find me.

'Cause I'd tear a hole thru space and time

just for your body to be next to mine.

You are my Neruda moment.

Here's to my time with you,

and here's to all those things we do.

Here's to the way your eyes grow and flash

just like the night,

that night,

I was inside your laugh.

A park pagoda washed in a summer rain.

You and I locked in a lover's embrace.

I imagine some images won't ever leave me,

and this image leaving me would probably kill me.

Trapped in your arms I don't want to be free.

Lost in your eyes, please God, no one find me.

'Cause I'd tear a hole thru space and time

just for your body to be next to mine.

You are my Neruda moment.

Body of my woman I AM in your grace.

My thirst, my desire, my favorite name!

Dark river-beds where the eternal thirst flows

and weariness follows and the infinite grows.

A Walk Home

Two blown-over trees

and a fire

on my walk home

make me believe the world

is up to something,

but being

positive is positively

 

impossible.

 

I suppose I should explain, also,

that I quit smoking yesterday—and

haven’t relapsed with even a single

puff—and have been fasting all

day

 

(which may have something to do with the significance

I feel);

but when you get right down to it, so many things seem

to be

going on in so many directions of existence that it is not

in me

to be able to catalogue and understand them all: with an

almost

impossible speed they seem to be running at me at break

neck

speed.

 

And I come home to find two trees blown down

on an unspecial day—there was no horribly heavy

wind—and a fire that started out of nowehere—

with nobody around to mind it.

 

Can they possibly be related?

And all this after the most significant ten

days of my recent history.

 

Or is it just mattering residue?

 

“You can find meaning in anything if you look hard enough?”

That fucked me up for a long time,

but then I realized:

if you never look for meaning

you’re certainly bound to never find any.