this poem is dedicated to wayne gilbert, my friend and teacher, who taught me the joy of reading, writing and speaking poetry
perhaps this is a poem or ancient prophecy echoing thru the ether or page three hundred and three of the g.e. refrigerator repair manual or too much caffeine too much ambition perhaps i’m walking the block in high tech shoes of direction and destination or maybe i’m just spinning the earth with my feet this might be september and the moon is shaped like a riddle too big to smash with a hammer this might be a fishbowl and i’m just another fishy citizen working in a fish stick factory i eat and shit and work work and shit and eat and then pray for god to come and clean the water this might be the sticky afterbirth or the moment of climax, or the wink of a lover’s eye in a faded blue buick with steamed up windows and young spirit waiting to enter the motel called mother this might be a daytime tv talk show this might be a keystone cops movie or maybe both grainy black and white big hat, billy club rescue of the whispering, whimpering mr and ms damsel tongue tied to the railroad tracks of tv guru voodoo this might be a snow globe and i should feel foolish for not believing in fairytales this might be candy-hopscotch-doo-dah-la-la mountain where happiness glows like a crack-pipe cherry where catfish swim with dog packs of dolphin grapevines sing songs of festival wine and all the spy satellites hold hands and twinkle together this might be a motor-home graveyard flat hills of empty shells and grey weather dead center of humdrum where hummingbirds forget how to hum and drop dead this might be trick photography or the rare occurrence of natural magic behold the mighty onion a gallery of curtains unwarp the mummy from the mummy and wah-lah no more universe perhaps there’s another universe next door that looks and smells and shakes just like this one except no one there sings songs about onions (let’s go!) this might be leap year and all the leap frogs are leaving this world to orbit some other mud puddle bum around in limbo snuggle up in candy-colored god clusters get too heavy with philosophy and fall down tomorrow it will rain frogs this may seem crazy but this might be someone else’s fever dream and i’m sleeping in the wrong head this might be the day before i die and i’m here to cast the first stone to fill my coffin with novocain comic books and last minute field goals perhaps all of this could be or should be or once was long ago all i know is i misspoke, tried to sing a choked bit my tongue so hard it made me cry and i can’t see anything very clear perhaps this is a poem
published in edge of humanity magazine 4-25-2023
jalopy dreams 