He Told Me He Dreamed In Color
He Told Me He Dreamed In Color
but the memories were in grayscale,
and it doesn’t really matter.
I asked to hear a story of his past
long gone, if it weren’t elapsed.
He said,
“I was born in eighty-four,”
and that was that—was the past.
Then the sun drowned in the hills, dead
and floating in the fleshy,
white gold waves.
The last bees drew their evening’s
honey dust
as we lolled in the grains, awake.
It hurts to think his golden past
won’t amount to more than silver.
Every thought,
dream and memory,
for me, is full in water color.
Then a wasp landed
on my lips,
dug his feet into the gloss.
I wondered if there’s such a thing
as wanting what you’ve got.
I let his needles touch me,
wary of the sting.
His orange and blackness will
haunt me.
But he won’t remember a thing.
criptic greetings
Dear friends,
Though I loath to keep my thoughts bottled, I have to leave a message for at least someone to read. This is not a prequel to things to come, but a hint at things that may. Allow me to explain…
Green trees, livid skies, the smell of salt water, and cool rain have been burning my mind each night. In dreams of dancing gray-blues and dreary-greens that reflect my woodland seaside paradise, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake somewhere. My heart longs for the tall, grandiose parlor I’d foolishly rejected. Yet those vast emerald carpets of ferns and nettle, and pillars of hemlock are etched deeply into my soul’s memory. I’d been there before, tempting fate with short pilgrimages, only to turn my back on the wood that has called to me since birth. There’s a great picture window there, designed to glorify the sunset, a prelude to the maternal night. It’s decorated foaming curls and brine tapestries still beckon me, each slumber, to look out over that sea… especially whenever the dried, sallow fields and brittle rock of my self-imposed prison close in on my waking days and drive me into a claustrophobic sleep. A sleep fashioned only to tempt me with dreams of an inviting home. That yellow hell I’ve chained myself in has only grown more hateful to me, as the ice and death of winter reminds me that life slows down in a frozen desert. It’s a cruel fate I could never settle for. And after weeks of ignoring my dreams, I can’t help but wonder why I still aim for silken paper houses built on the red sun’s alter, when all I’ve ever wanted waits behind me in the rainforest of the free world. Where life is unavoidable, and the air always allows room to breath—how can I not give in? What spirit of the orient can offer me more than the rich earth and living stone that has called me from the land of mountains for years before the east side of the planet was even a glimmer in my eye? What can the concrete islands give me that I cannot get in the home that was created just for me?
But how do I take back five years of insolence? This earth must, by now, have given up on me—a prodigal child desperate to run to a metropolitan purgatory and hide. How can I retire to the emerald rapture, after I’ve fought the tidal draw so long? Maybe I can’t. What could my five years of distraction possibly offer me out there? I’m not sure now, but I’d be blessed for the chance to find out.
I refuse to be a prisoner of myself forever.
See you when I wake up,
Jenai
I’ve been on a poem kick… here’s the latest monster.
Mortalitarianism [a poem]
I peeled a hotdog today
To see what lies beyond the casing.
Vulnerable and sick in its nakedness,
It lay in my hand with all the glory
Of an aborted fetus.
When I looked at the fuzzy flute,
I wondered if its former shell
Resented the fate of intestinal skin,
As it lay in fleshy piles
Of swine, shaved from its meaty spine.
I once read an article about pigs,
Donating their organs for transplant,
Sacrificing a porky life for Lou
To have a new heart.
Bacon destroyed the first one.
Cholesterol,
Like peanuts, pet dander, and pollen,
Remind us that we are mortal.
So I snort hard to clear my sinuses
And pop Claritin, Tic-Tacs, and Ricola.
I’m not gonna die today, Juan.
I’m just gonna bisect this hotdog.
(I wrote this last Tuesday. C&C welcome.)
When’s day?
So Obama’rama won Montana & a surge o’ super deggies…
now McCain’s trying to skiddle away from Prince Bush,
to defend his waring widdle candi’poli’da’cies.
That’s poemification.
HAIKU WITH JENAI. Brought to you by 3:48 PM
Haiku #0: On Haiku.
I wish to share with
You my latest of haiku
Because I’m mad board.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Haiku #1: On Lust.
It’s inutile,
My conciliatory
Woman’s lechery.
Haiku #2: On Rage.
My enmity is
Paltry, deserves no reproach.
Everyone relates.
Haiku #3: On Experimentation.
A carpetmuncher
Is another word for dyke.
Or lesbian.
Haiku #4: On Men.
What I wouldn’t give
For a man with a long, hard,
Clean, legal record.
Haiku #5: On Failure.
Just a college girl,
Lacking in omnificence,
Cursing her wack womb.
Haiku #6: On Age.
Some women’s minds bloom.
Some flat out fail to mature.
And my mind bisects.
Haiku #7: On the world’s shitnoses.
Being proud of your
Own uncertainties is why
You are so shameless.
Haiku #8: On Sleep.
Some need but few hours,
Whereas I need but sweet dreams.
I killed a monster.
