sing songey...homemade winey...paper cup sip sip dissappeary...
ive become lost down the paper barrell of a cigarrette for a sign that all the pretty singing wont break the streak i have going...
just thinking my way through every dream ive had in the past week..waiting it out.
if cataloged it would line up chronologically thusly:
monday-tornado dream. shattering glass. blades of grass cutting paper thin red ropes through my cheek bones
tuesday- moving trucks dust and fruit flies
wednesday- copper wires and tongue rings
thursday- helicopter chase scene through red letter desert sunsets
and here they collide on a friday evening...sketch scenes coagulating to the rhythm of a heart murmer.. pitter pattering through my feet on an old carpet in a friendly living room.
and i remember that dreams are boring. and im very tired of characterizations and their empty projections.
so some action.... i expect the me here to get up at any minute and collide with a friendly meeting on the street. any street in america perhaps or with any luck and with enough wine then maybe a freighter out of dodge into the murky depths and possibility. but it just so happens that im landlocked and i have to limit my scopes. so i sit in place and wait for my lovely singing friends to get the spark to take to the streets. to ramble out for nowhere go...no home close...only further and often...
nothing catelogued
nowhere charted
all the time
these expectations are met with more and more drunken guitar sing alongs and fruit flies cruising low... dodging lighter flames and sudden air currents of shouted 90's.......oh! but wait whats that?!
out the door now. just close enough. in this shapeshifting cobble stone neighborhood. something dark. open. willing. calling out?
is this me?
who is that shadow standing in the door way...?
the gloom of tomorrow's hangovers? promises too excited and shifting to keep up with? worse- my collecting anxieties of sunken bridges across tomorrows possibilities....
oh well..best not mull over it now.... the moon hangs low in a strange misty summer midnight and i havent the courage to contend with its countless scores of destitute phantoms looking to steal my relative sanity...to steal off to a mystery and broken heart im not willing to stare in the eye
so i hold adventure at bay... for some other day...
some waking morning in the grass of a friends back yard... face to face with the death month of summer.. moanful greetings to he broken up dog days...
for all those wilted books on my shelves
and false starts.
