There is Dream & There is a River & Therein Lies the Natural World
The white table glows in the room
& on the table there is a camera:
A Hasselblad from Gothenburg,
Sweden, blessed w The Gota Alv,
Best known for industry & trade,
& served as model & inspiration for
The Pony Express snaking its way
From St. Joseph, Missouri
Through Olef Bergstrom’s Nebraska
to Sacramento, California
Where I drove a 1974 Volvo
Into the ground
& the woman I bought it from
But never paid, repossessed it
One morning while I slept
One off & woke to find a box
Of papers & half glass pipes
& twisted & burned strands
Of Chore Boy in the foyer
Of the place on 26th Street
Where I joined the denizens
Of the distal ring of downtown:
Hustling pool @ The Monte Carlo,
Arrows @ The Streets of London,
Sitting motionless @ night
In the Capitol Garden
W frozen bronze statues
that never spoke a word
But wept a chasm of tears
In the footlights
Of the Vietnam War Memorial.
I believe I dreamed everything.
The arrival of Mr Sorrow
In the anteroom of the striped house,
His left hand clenched beneath his jaw
His right finger extended
To the many rooms
I will eventually occupy
& materialize in & know
I have seen them before.
One in which I lay
beneath a clear tent
Bound to oxygen
I can no longer
Summon on my own,
Like my neighbour Mr Sherman
Gasping Between syllables
& eking out sentences
While he paused on his front lawn
The mower humming & kicking
Out gasoline & his wheeze a tiny
Drone that preceded my love
For post-modern
classical avant-garde
& somehow was a harbinger
Of my fate, my shit lungs
That I inherited from some unknown
Early twin in Spain or Poland or Ireland
Who poured whiskey over ice
& was unfaithful & unkind
To everybody he knew & then
In a hairpin life-turn
W a dead right arm & skin
As thin as tissue-paper
& a head full of invisible friends
Stopped lying & stealing & drinking
& slowly became someone else,
The person they wanted to become
Which was nobody.
Nothing.
A wisp of air.
A downed tree branch.
A circus tent collapsed
On the edge of town.
Ray Bradbury & his waffle iron
Frying eggs in the morning
For his children who didn’t know
He had a job @ all other than
Caring for them, which he did
Wholeheartedly,
& then lit a tiny lamp
@ night & wrote
Stories about Mars
& tattoos & circuses,
Not necessarily striped,
But dangerous & fun
Like the one I worked in
As Half-Human/Half-Ram
Alongside The Fat Lady
& The Silent Man
for years.
Another room where a small child
Is huddled in the corner
& won’t look @ me
& I have an uncontrollable urge
To kick it.
The dream has variations
But is essentially the same:
Mr Sorrow in stripes.
A house w many rooms
That I cannot exit by going back
The way I came, I can only proceed
& every time the spiel is the same:
“Are you ready to play the game…?
Are you you ready?”
Once,
I got my ass kicked by a friend
Because I had stolen his girlfriend
& she was the only one who
Didn’t know I was the wrong choice.
I stole more from both of them
Then the beating could cover.
There is a whisper of a scar
On my top lip where his fist
Opened the skin.
“I got what I came for.”
He said to me as we stood there,
My blood spilling onto the sidewalk
& His face howling w rage
& the knowledge that no matter
How many punches he threw
He could not change the trajectory
Of events & he could not regain
what he lost & so desperately
Wanted.
The moon is full & shines
incandescent
A giant white tablet in the sky.
A perfectly round egg.
A hug & slap from outer-space.
The natural world is a letter
Filled w sentences in an obscure hand.
It sits on the table in the dark room
Next to the camera, the envelope torn
Open & discarded on the floor.
There is no return address.
Inside the envelope w the letter
A map folded several times.
Many times. Folded & folded.
It resembles a square & I am
Not willing to unfold it.
It does not matter if I open the map
Because I am going to the destination
Designated on the map & I don’t need it.
I will get there anyhow.
& I don’t need to read the letter
But I have read it many times already.
I especially like the part on page three.
After the greeting & the pleasantries
& the early trouble that came & went.
In your house you have found
A table & a chair & a camera
You hear the voices in the other room
Your name has changed a thousand times
The white table glows in the dark room
There is no chain on the door
There is a moon in the sky
Round & perfect & white
So unlike an egg
It is the most perfect egg
You have ever seen