My body warbles in the dewy heat.
Vision blurred eyes sting from the gentle
pressures on my temple.
Vacant sloped painted ceilings,
White with wooden beams,
like school camps or dorms,
or family holidays.
Except that I am alone in
the company of white lamps,
not rich in mood setting,
or memory softening.
Rhythmic fan dance like reliable thoughts.
Ticking away at a comforting pace,
For which I am grateful, for
if there were stark silence, I should demand
Amber lights at least.
Don’t you agree?
I am woozy and wondering,
if there was a particular purpose,
for such moods.
As it seems neither to potter,
nor rest sustains the needs,
of such a space.
And so I write whether poetry,
or prose, as an action from discontent,
activity from anxiety.
To reach an end in itself.
Will beautiful words to come carve out from this dream,
a mattress of solid matter to allay the world,
now tearing ever so gently at my crown.
I seek the lap of the Lord beyond there,
crystalline clouds of promise,
scared by the radiance of the sun I can’t see.
Alas the plane turns to take off
and rather I console with
rainbow ghosts of gaseous density,
an idle patch above the tarmac.
Will myself to write beautiful word,
lest these powdery skies leave me unfounded,
my crest a sieve of the finest piercings,
too fine for Instagram clouds to collect within.
And after all, what
would they do there, but
move away again.
Find me a salve wrapped
like economy snacks, that
I may accept without shame and
consume in practical comfort.
A warm cloth to moisten my skin,
to glide over closed eyes and mouth,
to pull through myself for cardia cleansing.
Will this quiet humor inside,
behind my hair and before my nape,
to hand me the objects of abstract comedy,
so I may smile to myself as
I walk the strange dweller in me,
through another turn of
an indifferent Earth.