Friday, April 11, 2008


(This is a poem I wrote a while back) I still kind of like it!

Every morning I wake up with scabs on my eyes!
Yellow clotted blood with razor edges and omens.
Dried up tear ducts needing triple bypasses.
Infant eyes emerging from a womb of sleep.

What Did I dream? That the fountain of the deep has dried!
What thought, what nightmare, what Sahara!
Dreams of love leaving for the some grey suite with white pinstripes,
For combed teeth and wire brushed brain cells.
Was it of Dresden, Hiroshima and the evening news,
World Hunger, Nanking and napalm hues.
Was it the devil painting realism with hellfire
Or I his mirror mimicking his hunting dance?
Was it of brides whose grooms stole the batteries
From their flashlights leaving their words cavernous,
Like some chill that will not leave, an achy shoulder,
Or a truth you can’t remember.

A holy book said that our children would dream dreams
But nothing of dry dream stream scheme screams!!!!!!!

A layer of your eye burns off when it sees light every morning
As if it were incense asking for forgiveness for our secret thoughts!

1 comment:

J. Milo said...

what a staggering poem, contrasted with a cutely baffling title.