untitled

dark flags hang limp in the late
afternoon; bare trees filgree the golden
cries from beneath the western horizon;

        asleep, beneath the willow, i am dreaming
        of stone castles and love's regret; bitter
        sweet resignation, no, i mean, deep acceptance
        makes my mouth cluck, in sleep, just like one spoonful
        of vanilla ice cream on a still august night.

tarot cards lecture patience's ultimate
justice; the hexagrams wait for fruit
to ripen; while my impetuous, demanding
gratification junkie-child begins a moan
ing campaign of sniveling-constant
sniping, a griping grater, replete with endless
leaping plans of action, designed
to "get what we
really want."

        white cloud islands skim
        across a shocking blue sky,
        with the darkness seeping up
        projecting highlight films
        of possible idyllic eventualities; with only
        occassional dim, dark, surreal
        vignettes (drenched in the dread
        of perpetual betrayal and limitless
        proof of my naive inclination
        to believe the sound)
        of the human voice

psychiatrists on Oprah describe the
"illness of those poor souls who need
so badly to believe"
that life's (apparantly) random potshots
secretly portray the inscrutable
logic of coincidence, verifying evidence
of the Actual Hand
of some omnicient Father,
keeping track
and balancing all accounts.

        dreaming, on a cot, on the porch
        of some odd, Maine cabin in
        the snowy woods of february,
        minute clips of early familiy history
        appear innane enough, from here
        now, although the endings all
        seem to tend to shift to scenes
        of high drama, and feats
        of fearless plunging right
        through impossibly small
        hatches in the floor.

        oh; that other life,
        of dreams, seems so much
        ealer to the touch; coming dusted
        with particles crackling, covered
        with sacred packs of energy, capable
        of penetrating deep beneath even
        the everyday armor that
        protects (us from) or denies (us) the
        one true source of power
        and the capability of changing
        ourselves

oh! this odd fucking planet
(of sleep), where gods walk unaware
of the lightning deep, deep in their pockets;
and wake each day in a room of trance
(beyond time, or logic), and give their nights
to an aimless wandering through wasted worlds;

when all they really need
to do, is
wake-up
Twice
and seize their ability to dream
for real.