Friday, January 16, 2009

poems 1982


Drifting dream. Sitting on a beam. Two cells on a shaft. One fore, one aft. Protean complements. Sunday supplements. Brisk and happy beyond beyond belief, I take me in and what a relief. Every room well maintained. Every splash of blue contained within the lines. Rushing, shifting. Take me deep and go on drifting.


Something. I can see the whole world fall away and there nothing but this pain. This morning I could feel the sheets rustling the leaves shaking but still this pain. Tonight I can relax and dwell in gray wet cloudy and fold my pain into nothing. Nothing.


How strange when the infra-red ultra-thin membrane of dream blood ruptures and spills a dread film between the seeing-eye and a world itching and twitching inflamed rejecting a donor tissue.


I wOUld wOrshIp grEEn glAss, bUt drIvEn tO cOnsIdEr...cOmpOsItIOn, thE rElAtIvE EAsE wIth whIch shArp pAnEs, slAppEd Up thrOUgh tIdY frAmEs, fIltEr whItE thrOUgh flAttEnEd sAlts, pOUndEd IntO rUdE AllIAncE...I Opt OUt. YEllOw Is hOw thEsE skYlInEs fAll, pOUrEd lIke sAndY sOIl In smEArY vAlEncE.