eternity explained.

My X

says that if she didn't dye her hair this golden monocotyledonous eelgrass

and if the wind did not weave the gray, greige leftover baby-hairs

into the dried stems of the Blues

that she would come back to me, when dead,

as the witch of energy to loot my pampered existence

and to scratch to bleeding whatever left over poems from my eyes. Well,

I really don't need that s**t to happen. So if

I see her as the auburn-blond Beyonce'

with those edible breasts, who's breath just happens to stink

in the terrycloth housecoat, splitting my

all-beef kielbasa into quarters. And if her

toes are splayed in her Bullwinkle house shoes

with the moose missing an eye,

then i have learned to disregard the dreams

i deem eternal.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

wow...yes, "scratch to bleeding whatever left over poems from my eyes"
i think many of us would try to stop her...sometimes folks just can't move on...they hold grudges forever, and often they are not legitimate grudges..takes two to tango and two to stop the dance...
even if we are dancing in house shoes with an eye missing.
j.

[h d e rushin]

thank you dearest brother....dana

[Ken Simm.]

I'm reading at the moment about mankind having various planes of existance and living in them simultaneously. Without one plane knowing about the existance of the other unless you are talking about the higher levels looking down on the lower living levels. A sort of pyschological Matrix set of programmes. Dreams are obviously on another level. I'm also thinking of Jung's Collective Unconscious and what I used to do with half a tab of Acid in praise of Timothy Leary.
Seems to me we have some archetypes from the dream level here. Perhaps not the universal archetypes of Jung but symbols of our age nonetheless.
S**t, I do like your poems. Especially when you get like this and I pick my way through the thoughts of a genius guy living in Detroit. I'm usually probably way out. But that is what I like about your work. You can pick your own archetypal pathway. And be right in your own experience.Or it could be just a poem about a woman living in your building.
The book I'm reading is Mysteries by Colin Wilson in case you were wondering where I get these stupid ideas.