Wednesday, April 18, 2018

My Trip: The Last Siona Dream



I waited for hours
in the darkened corridor
below the stairs. Then I
had one more thing to do,
and someone told me
that the ship had come.
I began the climb
along the white wall.
It was familiar
but not the same.
At the top, the stair
curved behind its
barrier and it took
minutes to find the
end. The room was
warm with sun as I
reached the termination
of my climb. I finally saw her,
a lace dropped over
her head, hands on the
piano keys as she wrote.
I could see the
familiar fingers and almost
touch them with my eyes.
When she sensed me,
she made little
kissy noises with her lips.
There were no words.
Except that I said, I won't come
back again. And cried.

Tuesday, April 10, 2018

Tell Me It's Not True Poem


.
.
Little Jewish man without a wife,
whose chance for victory has past,
waits like zen for something that
never comes. The busses go by and
the cars turn past him to the left,
.
and people in their pairs
smile ahead at something of which
they approve, welcoming eyes,
words that interrupt the air.
.
There were no tears
when he walked,
when he lost and spent
in the hollow city.

Thursday, April 05, 2018

Manitoba


.
.
I finally came
to understand
I'm cold as much because
I'm scared to
take off my shirt
as because of temperature.

Wednesday, April 04, 2018

My Friends


.
.
They are not
completely imaginary.
.
Let's say
their realness leaves
an imaginary shadow
.
in my mind. They
construct models
of themselves which
.
may not look
like them at all.
And then,
.
who knows what they
look like. They are
never seen.

Sunday, April 01, 2018

Quiet Bumping



All these ;little
voices running through my head.
Most unattached to faces.
It's like a phantom
fairy tale.
.
Voices without sound
like the creepy
underbelly of thought
whisper through the eye,
.
hushing hushing.
What we can do,
go past the mouth
right to the soul.

Thursday, March 29, 2018

After a Morning of Freedom


.
.
The dream is the real thing,
waking a compromise.
Oh  dream
I've been with you
since I bore you,
discovered you
clinging to the walls
of the tank that holds me,
or you discovered me.

Tuesday, March 27, 2018

The Organicity of the Sneeze

The Organicity of the Sneeze
.
.
My body is
a sack of the Earth.
I know how the
wind blows and blows
until something crashes
and the birds rise
until the sky bursts
open to blue.
Its a bag with hundreds of
distended membranes,
air pumping through them
and pulsing bubbles.
It prepares for explosions,
awaits them, longs for them,.
brings them about
like music.