Towards Dreams Moving

15 Feb

Three loads of
laundry under-
an incandescent light,
a hurricane lantern,
and three cowboys out on the
range outrunning a storm unsteady steads’ heads
hanging-
conversation cigarette smoke- cloud contests:
a series of cirrus clouds
floating to oblivion
versus
disappearing
cumulus.

Throwing back some cans
that won’t be seen until rain
finds them glistening droplets
jewels in the morning. Sword shaped
jabs of cloud punctuation- talk of
lost metals & canes, and somewhere
a cane is being used by an old man-
the third & final part of that flawed
riddle.

There is a barrel full
of old
abandoned canes
out there somewhere, and
stairs with no earthly purpose. Clouds
over the flats
of some terra somewhere.

You across the house
somewhere
then you approach-
kisssmokeclouds- you
depart
to takeover cooking
a meal you did not start.

Laundrysmoke standing- sitting-
he talks about glass, convicts,
and men fighting to be called Uggy.
He turns to worry.
“Just remember to take it slow- stop often-
don’t
push
that
car.”

More compression, and yeah stress is high,
but we are riding the waves as best we can
manage
TV conversations approaching
infinity stunted over and over again-
the universe cycles of existence.

We try not to pay attention
to the images set to laugh tracks-
those laughs that will keep on going
forever and ever disembodied
laughing the masses
into the sleep of the dinosaurs.

We sit talking to your Mom- she flips to the weather-
words flowing where a river could run- geography stunted-
a stream of words-
cycling back to well laid questions- you move
deftly like a soldier across a mindfield
who wishes to see tomorrow- and you know it is
cyclical. We settle for the small victories tonight.

And somewhere that old man has
put down his cane,
thrown his coat over a chair,
and is warming something alone-
he just now got back from delivering flowers.

From sun
to incandescent
to blue glass glows
our evening turns into a study
of space & dimensions-
packing all your things-
space pop morning jingles
boxes jingle in drizzle
stray/loose dogs edging for a
fight in the settling misty
under lamplight
fog.

And we decide to stretch out
our final time here
this morning hearing
rain hitting
against metal-
underwater clangs-
smoking we talk like we are
riverwalking somewhere,
and it is that perfect
spring day- an Anhinga floating
in that river somewhere- he’ll stick his head up-

and i’ll fumble with my camera-

I’ll nudge you to look-
will you see the bird
or the ripple?

And what will that bird think of us as he surfaces again?
Will he surface again? Is he hiding from us-potential
hungry mouths? I only wish I could see us
as that old bird will see us- to know the world as it knows it.

“Look there he is!”

The Anhinga surfaces again just like an old
ragtime band playing on & on- I imagine
he is just going with the flow of the

riverfood & survival.

“And are you alright?”

Yes, we face the dawn of all
tomorrows- but that’s
what we do everyday
anyway- together.

For now we shall rest in
each other’s thoughts- untangling the
blankets as needed & then
onward to dreams sailing.

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