Blesok no. 51, November-December, 2006
I get on at a small train station. A booth with an old ticket selling lady.
The carriage is full of scouts and fourteen-year-old girls. They chatter. I eye them menacingly from under my brow. I don’t care for what they do. They don’t care.
The train stops and stops and stops. The world is a series of scenes through the window. People enter and exit. The world switches like a slide show.
The corner has a man with a long neck and an apple. He gnaws and reads religion. I eye him menacingly from under my brow. No reason.
The sun keeps shining in my eyes. It could be that the train is following the tracks, the tracks the sun or even the sun the train. Clearly, an all-out conspiracy against my humble persona is at large.
I’m headed back. I’ve been there before, but I have a return ticket. I’d nap, but the conductor wants to see the hole again and again. He eyes it suspecting he hadn’t punched it himself.
I open the window, lean, breathe. An older gentleman opposite coughs dryly.
The nap evades me. Not far to go. I tie my shoe.
It’s a beautiful night out there. I could ride and ride and ride.
I get off a station early.
My mornings have lives of their own.
never wake me sleeping,
never lull awake.
My mornings dream me,
and lie in wait:
I grow by coffee and vitamins,
a splash of water to wash away the scent.
The morning wash load (of consciousness, conscience) – an ambush
along the way.
I dream of her sometimes and it is and isn’t her. I see her on the street never knowing if it’s her I’ve seen.
I talk to her on the phone. I love you, I tell her, I tell most of them that.
She loves me too.
Hair color she changes. Makeup she wears and does not wear. She is my first, my last, the current ex.
In dreams we run in the far future, entwine, entwine.
Too many people, the future is full of people,
a solitude solo.
She will not be, never has been. Love is flesh in mind in mouth love is my dark closet of memory love is always
only when gone.
An unday diary
A year/and a half of undays
had passed, it would seem.
An unday is an unending day.
An unday doesn’t count
and in it hours don’t count.
A year/and a half of undays then;
in it but that: a year/and a half.
An unday tips its hat
»Unday/and a half,,
»charmed, I’m sure.«
»Home. It would seem.«
An unday is always at home
and en route elsewhere,
in between you and I
over you, over I
(always en route)
unto self, you and I. Each day
an unday takes everyday
»Today. It would seem.«
An unday is a done day,
a day, done away with,
for a year/and a half.
All the world’s words have lost my mind
A poem on sleep,
the scattered freight of perception,
fragments of whispers,
we wallow into tomorrow omniously,
cities fly past our windows
the flattering gypsies).
Some words have lost my mind: dreamos, that
buzzwuzzers from beneath
the dead river branches with tiny
wrists I used to love to kiss.
Cities breathe, cough & spit,
the summer smog opens the streets’ nostrils,
the buildings disband, all
the world’s buildings have lost the cities.
All the world’s words have lost my mind.
The poem on sleep awaits their return;
the dreams await the return
of the dead freight of perception.