The place in my dreams
She looked upon the fellow Who laid upon the riverside Outerspace via airplane glue. She asked "How'd you get here?" He answered incoherent "The hardware store." Seemed to her he got there with three-toed sneakers and thirst. "Don't you have school?" That's not what he asked but what she heard. I do have school but I ain't there Nothing to teach me. This river is my favourite place So many people to walk by and ignore Polluted water stinking But better than the stink at home. Empty hairspray cans float by Still preferred. I do have school but I ain't there Down around the bend There's magic in the architecture. Oldest building and half a shell. People sit on benches holding coffees I wonder at the empty wall that stands Apart from the rest. If I owned the place what would I do with it? Would I hang a screen like a drive-in Play movies, free for the riverside audience Or would that break the spell Of beautiful decrepitude? It's my secret boundary Past the glassless windows The place in my dreams that I've had mapped for years All the places I've lived Visited, driven past Arranged neatly for me to visit in a night. My father's house down the block from the arcade Across the province while awake Makes sense in sleep. I could go through those windows to take me there Like some time machine or back of a dragon Just as sure those would meet me. If there was magic in the architecture It would be those fire-black bricks Broken bottles picked by extended arms Every sunbeam and birdfeather Over the heaps of glass and river foam No care at all for truancy or vagrancy. They'll shine and shed whether I'm here or dreaming And I wish the man and his glue could know that comfort.
Untitled
Any man, sound of mind, eager of body should act with grace before her. She is a dangerous one and secretly. Her words as sharp as swords wit unmatched and the ones in her worship— alive and dead— know her touch is acid yet enticing as honey and with a private hatred she looks upon us all as beetles rolling dung. But I am not like them, you say. She will see I am a good, honourable man. I am learned, I am courteous I am, I am, I am... You are none of these things. You are dust in her fire. She will light you a moment and you'll be gone forever, and she will think on you never again so watch your heart.
I heard y’all like poetry, so I thought I’d share a couple more. The first was inspired by a “recurring dreamscape” I’ve had since I was a teenager, where all the things that happen in the dreams are distinct and weird, but the setting is always the same. At one point it was so frequent I could probably have mapped it out.
The second is a thing I wrote (like “In dreary days we came”) as part of a myth-inspired fantasy WIP. Unlike the other poem, this one was changed to be incorporated into the prose, so when/if that book is ever done/published, it won’t be super recognizable. But it’s still fun (I think so, anyway.)
Reminder, I’ve posted the intro and the first [one, two, three] chapters of Pull Me Under, my silly portal fantasy project. Saturday is chapter four, and another every Saturday after that.
Also! In the next few weeks I’ll be doing a cover reveal for my indie debut: PALLAS, a scifi/horror. Be sure to subscribe if you haven't yet, so you don’t miss out!
Lisa these are incredible. The second one feels like Neruda.
Have you ever done a collection? I wish I had more of a poetic inclination. I guess I generally try and do prose, if that makes sense.
It's hard to rewire my brain from academic writing... Slow, painful, progress. One bite at a time.