Tag: dream

que c’est

Qu’est-ce que c’est ?

It is like wanting to be able to dance
in a place where my feet are steeped
in tar pits, and I am the soon-to-be exhibit,
wailing with my tusks turned to sky.

Je veux me réveiller et je veux croire
qu’il est peut-être possible de rester là,
pendant un petit moment avant d’être
choqué en retour d’accepter la violence
quotidienne.

I want to dream believing it is still possible
to stay there for a moment before
being shocked back into routine
acceptance of the routine violence
of a given day.

I sit here, bleeding, wanting to insist
let us not for now pretend to be saving
each other when simple company
is enough. If it isn’t, then what do I do
with this knowing? That you will never
hear.

The idea of rescue for anyone here is far
past the depths, and here is my confession.

I do not know what those depths are called.
I do not know this space. I cannot name this time.
And yet, time keeps insisting. On seeming to know
me. What a thing, imaginer.

But I suspect.
That something about being makes this happen.
Peut-être.
That I spend what life I have in service of what
I will never be able to offer in kind.

Où es-tu ? Je ne peux pas en voir.

Enough,
éventuellement.

When hope gives out, I only want
to dream.

astral missives

between elsewhere

Where to, next? but the boatman will not tell.
Only leap, he says, between the boats
as we sail in the space between channels,
coursing code of signals woven in these waters,
currents of carpet filigreed with figures
of vegetal dream, scented with musk
of mane and canine teeth, tail and tender
breath of newborn skin; down of butterfly
catching red of griffin’s eye, shouting call back!
against flicker of torches painting membrane
of cave wall; trembling hand over womb,
magnetic storm lunges us into the slipstream
of tongues after Babel’s last breath and look
another shouts, look! We are arriving! now.

leaking cup

and cracks between worlds

There is a leak in these cups. For three mornings in a row now, my coffee is gone before I am anywhere near ready to begin anything. And the compass must have fallen into a crevice––or crevasse, somewhere in the storm of this mess. I like the dreaming better when I am not pulled from it so soon, and when I can see the distinctions between to and from. Writing that sentence sounds like an admission of having lost essential bearings, of not knowing whether this is coming or going, which is more than I meant to unpack so early. 

I rehearse the choreography of resolve: I will sort this out. Here, like this. This is a bed. This is a room. The alarm, Monday. The empty cup where the coffee should still be. In the kitchen, the knife beside the bread until the moment comes to cut, to feed. And I balk before reading the news again, not ready yet for the next installment of who is eating whom; it seems that we have yet to admit something to ourselves, about our tastes.

In the last dream, there were a number of us in need of carrying, away from some alarm. I was among these, but in the last scene a carrier, taking whomever I could fit in my arms. The carried were weakened, ill, and although larger than me in normal times, presented themselves small enough to fit under an arm.

Here we are, the I of my dream was saying to these, here we are and checking as I hurried, are you okay, saying as I hurried, here we are and we are almost. Saying, we are almost here. And now, time to go to some other where, more familiar in setting and somehow much less clear.

considering context

this solution an unknown substance, dissolving

No, meaning is not the cat’s pajamas. I think but cannot tell you how. Neither is it the bees’ knees. Do these dream in flower? I can only imagine. It isn’t exactly remembrance or having the same nightmare as the night before. This morning’s visitor wonders whether deer think in words without knowing it, so now I wonder whether I might read in flower, unaware as one who by the swallowing presence of an atmospheric mind, can write herd even when alone, and smell the wild prairie poem, recited in honeybee. 

***

Inspired by Bernadette Meyer.

The Consultants

Moonlit expertise

There was a group we would see at night by the river. We wanted to know what they did there. If it was nothing good, as everyone said, we still wanted to know, but how? One night we went to see for ourselves. With blue-shadowed feet they danced the shores to pieces, and we woke in our beds and went back the next night to see why? and they explained that they were seeking out the marrow of the river stone and to our question on for what? they said to talk. There was a precision to their foolishness. This, we recognized.  These were definitely not the ones you called if you had a question about calculations having to do with variable rates but could tell you in the space of a single breath the minutes until daybreak or the number of feathers needed to make a heart on the ground the size of your head, and whether when you are done it will even fit, and how to go about attaching it. 

Prize

Beyond imagination

You think a foothold is what you want, but maybe not.
Who needs to hold when you can flash away, a fish?
Swimming off now. When I awaken, I will remember
but not flinch, still tired but able to follow but not as
solid, to do the next part in dream and here is one
where the pearl of a long illness rolls itself
into light.

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