Sans Lumiére {sewer hole blues}

Dream

He hands me a children’s book. It’s the shape of a loveseat. The arms stick out from the sides of the book and are bright bright red. The pages are the seat. As we thumb through, the shape of the chair morphs into the narrative—changing shape by the words we are speaking. There is something deeply meaningful about the whole experience.

Expertly thumb flipping
Beer caps into trash bins
There are yogurt {yogrit} problems
And taco smoke bellowing
{open the windows}
And tire tracks in the yard
And trash cans blowing over
And garden beds that have yet
Been built {pyramidal}
What sound does your soul make
Falling down a sewer hole?
{Can anyone hear the electro magnetic static?}
Headaches of great magnitudes?
These ghosts that cover me are like dirty rags
Dredged from a sink
full
of
spittle
I’m writing again.
Carrots of cement
Salsa of sweet onion
Crumbs begin to develop in utensil drawers
Subtly the songs went silent
And I was thumbed out of a contact list
Like a booger
{If this poem were a song
you wouldn’t have heard it either}
It seems the universe
Has ants in its pants
In empty beer glass magnification
The lights flicker on and off {vivre sans lumiére}
In summer and someone else’s words
I’ll thumb my way west
On my way to heaven
Plop me next to a pair of boobs
so’s that I can dream again.