Tuesday, December 13, 2016

I Show Her Some Photographs



"Why do you
show me these photographs?"
she asks.
"These are
photographs of dreams."
"But they are not
respectable!" she exclaims,
all blushing.
"They come from
another world," I answer.
"You may understand
when you get there."
.
The population
of my dreams
may have no
parents. They
don't return
to tiny palaces
at the end of the day.
Stored away
on a high shelf
in the megawarehouse
of days and nights
of pickled parts and organs.

Wednesday, December 07, 2016

Faces in the Trader Joe's


We get plain.
Something
decorative in us,
demarcating sweet
from sour
fades.
Our faces
no longer
adorn us.
Only the old
signals still work,
the old
mouth edges,
eyebrow tips,
laugh-frown lines
forehead waves.

Tuesday, December 06, 2016

Seventy-Six (Trombones)


Here in this small house
far away from any thing I've ever owned
there is a community of phantasms.
I have an
animal, human to me
who loves me.
There are images of
hips. Why are they
living hips with faces so
distant, who never speak?
Far away, lonely games,
negotiating for every smile.
You have to be
strong
to keep your mind.