Tuesday, May 5, 2009


I want to consummate

not exactly what was
in my dream
but from a like landscape

Sunlight pouring
through my pores

In my mind I make the whole
into a paradise
a brief stint in the grasses
by the water

In our minds we encounter visions that elude us
by daylight


We were reading poetry
you and I
in my dream

or perhaps philosophy

A tattered chapbook
or that slim volume
wherein the Frenchman writes
“Man is nothing but what he makes of himself.”

You see how the great pipe-smoker
comes back to me now

But that afternoon
by the mosaics museum
is memory, not dream

the slim red-orange volume
and the open picnic basket

wine from Dixie cups
to lips


One cannot make a memory consummate:
It is what it was (is and will be)

This experiment involves the edge
of what’s to come
as in
I think of a playful poke to your ribs
then I playfully poke your ribs

minus the narration

There is a field
a breeze, a grassy patch
simple things
cross-legged and full of leisure
beneath the tree’s

we sit together

chasing our flickering thoughts
discussing our opinions of contemporaries
their devices
their failures


You, forever with your theories
about time
and its non-existence

How is it that I can call out to you from here?

Let us consummate
in the nether regions
of these whispers
for it is possible this is all our natures desire

To the park then!
this very moment
for the sun beckons us
or so we imagine