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His dreamier stuff

He knew their names but little else—
Kept his dreamier stuff in used plastic bags for later
Complained bitterly when someone took
his ritual pan and filled it with salt water...
He leaves a ritual of salt every week
within a few yellowish dishes in a stainless-steel sink

It’s a beauty that isn’t his to lose—
He attacks pale demons every night
in salty, porous dreams that clench his teeth
They come to him like angels
fixing for a fight,
like a love that’s hardly felt and rarely seen

His dreams position his various, wayward dreads—
They’re playful as lightning, he says
they’re as useful as a roiled snake
For some slight misunderstanding friends might pull away
They’ll speak to him rarely once or twice again
their ill-heard voices quiescent in his head

Think about it, it’s like a master actor’s face—
it reveals what is thought and felt momentarily
He’d better grasp it quick or forget it...
Despite her fierce mad colors he feels her deep stark mystery
He turns once more to his own sweet, transparent songs
Granted, another’s wrought hard secrets aren’t very plain for long

Subject, of course, to his ferocious, inexplicable strains—
to his gradient amazements, so unpredictable
so peculiar, like the gaudy sweet smell of his parent’s liquor cabinet
alcohol and wood, sawdust and stale polish
He thinks things might still be different
He foolishly seeks the difference

Some things seem natural to him—
Like the numbers tattooed on his mother’s arm
Her experience, her prowess, her loving touch
The things she’ll never say...
Like how many died and
how many were led away

 

 

-March 3, 2013-