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Fugitive Dreams

At what point did he become so strong,
so powerful,
that no one cared to tell him
anything true?
He was a clever old lion,
used to being obeyed, an old strength,
used to being lied to

The world, the sages say,
weeps from the innermost and farthest place
Impermanent, interdependent individuals
link together through understanding
and the reduction of sadness...
Lift up your eyes, there it is— time
under a vault of stars and sky

The traffic backs up so he leaves his blue car
to see what’s up
Nothing but cars and trucks, stuck for miles of curves
The blue car begins to move without him and he runs after it—
it will crash without him to maneuver it and drive
But he doesn’t catch up and he watches it go in the distance
as it deftly maneuvers itself around the curves, cars and trucks without him

Her dreams, it seems, all of them
come apart as she reaches for them
She preferred sometimes
to be treated as a toy, sometimes...
She’d poke the capsules the doctors gave her
with a pin to quicker stoke her way to oblivion—
her exile, and his, hidden and essential

Is it so needful, is it always the plan
for innocence to suffer?
The shape of her face pleases him
His sympathy for her is excruciating
Her beauty shines out at him from inside her
Please try to understand, this game is full of imperfections, failures—
stir full of the worldly, the fugitive, and the clever

He feels weightless in dreams and in water
What is it about people who sip coffee in elevators
that makes him want to bash their damn faces
against the elevator doors?
She sets the table as though she expects guests
There were never any guests
“Everything green and good is gone”

The police monitor his electronic communications
which juggle the demands of his wife, ex-wives
(still cordial), girlfriends and consorts
He was, they said, an illiterate, murderous son of a bitch
but one street-smart mother-fucker
“If you’d come an hour or two later I’d be gone,” he said
“Damn it, I can’t believe you got me”

 

 

-May 2, 2014-