in wondering there is sometimes lost the hour, the moment
life diligently will press on, without such airy dalliance
the world never dreams, not that the merest of seconds is lost
i am drowned in the sound of your breathing,
drifting far beyond time
where no shadow can reach me, where light splits
upon a thousand mirrors
i have inhaled your orchid memory as i stepped
out of the atmosphere
nowhere can i find myself as i once wandered,
separate from the sensation
in the wilds of the meteor showers in summer
dark, i forget five selves
the walking wind carries me to the beginning of
your silently mouthed name
i have been in your eyes a million years, my whole
life lived in one blink
I have been doomed so many times. I should be used to it by now, but the dreaming still affects me, some sort of fantasy that spills from my sleep still has me running around like a chicken with its head cut off (so to speak). Perhaps it is all a matter of degree. In me there whispers a comforting tune, that tells me that the curse is over, but the testing of this idea still comes at me in visions of despair. I will always fight them. Their resolutions are varied and sometimes intense, but sometimes all it requires is to understand that these — they are only a dream. And like all dreams, I may not ever find their true meaning, merely to wake, shake them off, and go on with living. This is the best of all of us.
we forget, scars remember themselves
i learn how to work in the dark, i remember
a calm: all pain is illusion, without center
(dreams emerge through us as things)
i hold as still as darkness, and i listen
the gnarls on the trees murmur deeply
i fathom the secret lives, sifting, lingering
into the stream we will send ourselves, to search for the light
behind us, a hundred million years buried in the waters’ banks
ahead, the darkness we are to shape into the world to come
There was a dream I once had, back in 1994, when I was deep within the madness. Jesus Christ was before me and He said, “Let me build you a house, big and strong.” And there was more, but I do not recall it. It was like a workman’s poem he was saying to me, a carpenter’s poem. He was shoving together some logs into something like a log cabin. Then I do remember that what I said back to him was my own specifications of what I would like to have as a dream home, The Home of the Future™ (yes, think Epcot Center). I asked for a technological marvel, when all he was showing me was wood. But some nights later, I had a dream, where Rosanna Arquette was a computer, an image on a screen that floated around, showing me that exact home I laid out. Strange the way the Lord works, n’est-ce pas? I’m glad that I never got that house for real, but I did get it. It is that we mostly misunderstand the mystery, I think: ask, and it shall be given to you; knock, and it shall be opened. You may find that it is true.
