Fidgeting Spirits
We holding halos to the sun
to see if they cast shadows.
Unsure but not alone, we gnats
of the soulfood kitchen.
We bicycles chattering in the wind,
noses combing date-filled pastries,
same noses like rudders in neon musk.
Potlucking afternoons, we sons and daughters,
up to our eyes in watermelon rinds.
We 3 cups 4 cups 5 cups coffee,
lighting May rollies in bed.
Windows flung wide, bussing the day,
open-eyed, love-handled, calling
like birds to the immortal sky.
We saplings lifting our shaky fists,
petitioning rain's amen.
Slivering the light while we can,
stepping out into dusk, listening
for the reverb of dreams.
We soft hallelujahs at the riverside,
tangled in our old tadpole skin.
Itching to ride our thumbs, stare down
that dozing pink flame—
We pillars of salt at the city line.
Saturday, May 30
Thursday, May 21
So today I had a nice nap
I usually don't post about what I do with my days here, but I think this is relevant. I took a nap today. I don't take many naps. I had a dream today during this nap, and when I woke up, I decided I wanted to write it down. So I formed a little story based on what I dreamt. Some of it is embellished/fabricated, but for the most part, the gist of the dream's there.
dream: There was a blonde little boy who had fits and bad dreams. At night he would be haunted by the last image that he saw before sleep, so he got into the habit of focusing on a picture of his favorite friendly duck.
But tonight, when the duck angel came to guide his dream, it spoke to him and said “You must escape your dreams on your own.” He adjusted his monocle, opened up a book sitting on the nightstand and climbed in, never to be heard from again. The boy's face flushed with fear. His dream turned empty and black and felt himself fall. His vision started to curl and blur into something new and next he was standing in the street of a giant city.
It was nighttime, so everything glowed like copper with the color of the streetlight. Just then a towering mustachioed man in overalls, bigger than anything else in the city, formed a ball of fire in his mouth. His eyes were small, straight black circles. His hair, black as his eyes, curled out from a tight red cap. All the boy could do was run as fireballs pummeled down skyscrapers. Before the boy knew it, there was another mustachioed giant, and a looming voice in the sky reciting some phrase in an unknown language over and over as each building tumbled.
Eventually the boy made it out of town, but not without the two giants following him. He ran with all his might through a sage-green field, fireballs lighting things up not too far from him. His chest heaved and his lungs burned. His little scrambling legs carried him to a cliff, where the ground just cut off into nothingness below. The giant brothers came closer and closer, mouths full of fire. The little boy had no choice but to jump. Fright filled his little bones. He closed his eyes, balled his fists, and leapt from the cliffside.
Falling, he kept his eyes closed, he whimpered a bit. Earlier that day the boy's father had told his grandma over the phone that the boy had been diagnosed with epilepsy. Epilepsy. Epilepsy. The word rang out over and over, was spelled in the sky above him in magically glowing script. He had no idea what it meant.
A small speck in the blackness beneath grew and grew and he realized he was falling straight for a meadow, his velocity ever-increasing. He tried to scream, but all of the air was shoved back into his throat, so he started to flail, as much he could. A blur of white suddenly swept in front of him and he hit it, or rather, it caught him. This blur of white was what looked to be an albino flying moose, with eyes pink, but strong.
The little boy held on strongly to moose's long hair as he galloped across the sky. Opening it's mouth, the moose began to sing a long continuous note that turned into another note, than another. A slow, continuous song that parted all of the fog from the boy's dream. The peered over the moose's shoulder and down below him he could see men and women with wondrous faces, wearing peculiar clothes, and playing even more peculiar instruments, joining into the moose's song, making it their own.
dream: There was a blonde little boy who had fits and bad dreams. At night he would be haunted by the last image that he saw before sleep, so he got into the habit of focusing on a picture of his favorite friendly duck.
But tonight, when the duck angel came to guide his dream, it spoke to him and said “You must escape your dreams on your own.” He adjusted his monocle, opened up a book sitting on the nightstand and climbed in, never to be heard from again. The boy's face flushed with fear. His dream turned empty and black and felt himself fall. His vision started to curl and blur into something new and next he was standing in the street of a giant city.
It was nighttime, so everything glowed like copper with the color of the streetlight. Just then a towering mustachioed man in overalls, bigger than anything else in the city, formed a ball of fire in his mouth. His eyes were small, straight black circles. His hair, black as his eyes, curled out from a tight red cap. All the boy could do was run as fireballs pummeled down skyscrapers. Before the boy knew it, there was another mustachioed giant, and a looming voice in the sky reciting some phrase in an unknown language over and over as each building tumbled.
Eventually the boy made it out of town, but not without the two giants following him. He ran with all his might through a sage-green field, fireballs lighting things up not too far from him. His chest heaved and his lungs burned. His little scrambling legs carried him to a cliff, where the ground just cut off into nothingness below. The giant brothers came closer and closer, mouths full of fire. The little boy had no choice but to jump. Fright filled his little bones. He closed his eyes, balled his fists, and leapt from the cliffside.
Falling, he kept his eyes closed, he whimpered a bit. Earlier that day the boy's father had told his grandma over the phone that the boy had been diagnosed with epilepsy. Epilepsy. Epilepsy. The word rang out over and over, was spelled in the sky above him in magically glowing script. He had no idea what it meant.
A small speck in the blackness beneath grew and grew and he realized he was falling straight for a meadow, his velocity ever-increasing. He tried to scream, but all of the air was shoved back into his throat, so he started to flail, as much he could. A blur of white suddenly swept in front of him and he hit it, or rather, it caught him. This blur of white was what looked to be an albino flying moose, with eyes pink, but strong.
The little boy held on strongly to moose's long hair as he galloped across the sky. Opening it's mouth, the moose began to sing a long continuous note that turned into another note, than another. A slow, continuous song that parted all of the fog from the boy's dream. The peered over the moose's shoulder and down below him he could see men and women with wondrous faces, wearing peculiar clothes, and playing even more peculiar instruments, joining into the moose's song, making it their own.
Little Song
Oh I shine with you tonight
in these woods, breaths riding
everlasting song, flickering
song of celestial expanse,
satellites sailing across the sky,
song of rest from daily mudly bravery.
in these woods, breaths riding
everlasting song, flickering
song of celestial expanse,
satellites sailing across the sky,
song of rest from daily mudly bravery.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
