November 13, 2006

Ray Sweatman, Tearin it Up.

Consistently, year after year. Ray.

REPRINTED without the express, written permission of Sir Ray, but with immeasurable respect:

Monty please, Door Number Three

November 5th, 2006 ·

I am nothing more than the dreams that dream me.

Inventing games under the cover of innocent trees,

cashing a paycheck, working the latest gadget,

walking down the aisle, smiling for the cameras,

comparing the different boxes of instant rice

falling from the ceiling of the supermarket,

getting stung by bees, trying to cover my

naked bumps down an empty corridor

of footsteps and bells banging from

the inside of a locker Let me out. 

There are three dreams that dream me. 

Minus the one where we are holding hands,

our circle the sun in a foreign land our differences

a celebration at the apex of the union the rails

of the balcony come loose we say goodbye

to each other and spend the rest of our time ducking. 

But this is not the one.  The first is (and of course

these have no order; they come when they do

like Variations on a Broadway tune

played by a drunken Master after the bars

are closed from Chicago to Paris

in the space between the needle

and the rush in the breath of an open cork)

the one where the mushrooms turn sinister

and we’re chest deep in red liquid, the cheese

is wrapping tightly as we grow smaller and

smaller, our arms flapping and flailing.

We wake to the usual alarms but there is no escape.

And there’s the one where you’re hanging

by your feet from the top of a lamp pole

inventing Bungee jumping with your own

shoestrings with all that you’d believed in

at the bottom in a heap.  The neighborhood cats

are rolling their eyes and the dogs are salivating

though they don’t know whether to bark,

lick or fuck you. It’s the one then

where it’s just you and the horses

following the sound of the creek

reminiscing about how insecure

she was in the mirror.  Just you

and the horses navigating the darkness.

An empty flask broken off from the narrative. 

A place where home has no map.  A place

where you don’t feel here.  And even that glimpse

of where you thought your senses knew it.  

The one how light looks through black iron bars

and the shadows she left after she was long gone.

The one where leaves are hand-me-downs

from generations hibernating. You mark

it down as just another delusion of an

estranged mind.  And now then the third one

(how we like to impose order, how we like

to simplify the world into something we

can understand like the mozzarella inside

our heads) is the one where I’m trying to

get home (yes the way she gives herself

after all the years of gorging on poppies

we thought were the other. The way

her voice sounds the first, the last, every time)

and I’m trying to get home (one here on earth)

but I can’t find the way and though she’s

left the crumbs I’m still a wolf

trespassing through gates and

covering my fingerprints, when

they (the keepers of the Neighborhood

the ones that insure that their property

values remain their highest, the

keepers of the civilized world)

round me up and put me in the Van.

There they proceed to shave me from head to toe. 

Tickle my Feet.  And laugh and laugh.

And go.  And there alone in the cul de sac

where the signs say No Outlet,

I realize I shall interpret light no more.

I will no more interpret silence.

I cannot interpret them

any more than I can interpret you.

Rather we shall lose ourselves in it.

And when they come that’s how

they’ll find us.  They will come

with their notepads and measuring

sticks and they will make what they

will of us depending on their mood.

A brooch, a hat.  A religion.  A crime.

They may even call it love.

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