That Old Dress

Every memory mends itself into this hemline.

Each thread of red silk pulled in the direction that best holds.

Underneath the clean line there is a mess--

made of all the criss-crossing stitches of untold stories.

Big Catch

Flipping nets into the sea in the middle of a hurricane?

over the sides of the boat, just off the coast--do it in a hurry!

There she wobbles, her knees locking and eyes squinting to the spray

She is the subconscious fisherwoman of your soul, eager to catch the day,

join her!

The raging winds and sea merge to make her vision blurry

but she knows the ropes by heart

she's been fishing here before

every coarse thread, every move

is memorized,

and she will show you.

Once memory is gone, then what? The winds die down

and now you are in that raft,

floating on the Trade Winds

towards Cuba, with her,

trying to remember why you pushed the boat from shore in the first place?

Then a large colorful shadow moves under the boat and she jerks awake.

You cry: Bait? Who needs it! 

Let her use her hair as fishing twine.

Rip open her chest and throw her heart on the line.

There is no sense in missing the chance

to make a big catch.

The Staircase

There is a little staircase at the head of my bed, it runs from here to Mars.

I run up it when I am dreaming to go sit at the bar, which is on Mars.

I sit on the stool and dream of school and all the things I have to learn,

while the atmosphere steams and the surface of the planet burns.

I am in a bubble made of glass,

I watch the planets spin and the constellations pass.

Tiny green men with hammers work on spaceships

and tell me things I need to know.

Then I fall slowly, like a fog or a dreary day

back into myself as I silently lay.

I proceed to wake up, 

and generally make some black coffee.

I start running down the staircase at great speed

to meet the day.

Racing Up

How have you been? Has any of the madness stopped? I felt the world stop turning when I hit the bottom of the river, my feet almost sinking into the muck. It was so cold, almost ice cold. I dare not think of what would happen if I got stuck. I raced up toward the surface.

The Fourth Wall of the Glass House

If it looks like a writer and smells like a writer, it's a piece of paper.

After I get about two or three thousand of these entries done, then I can start to find the real dinosaur bones.

Let he or she who is free from ink, throw the first stone to shatter the fourth wall of the glass house.

A Long Road

I have a long road ahead of me. I do not have boots on, that would be too ambitious. I think I will stay in bare feet. Now, it's not meant to be tough, exactly. It's not like the Christians walking through the woods, hitting themselves with willow whips--can you imagine? But it's still a trek for the sake of trekking.

The Tap Dancer

The tap dancer's billowing arms are floating up and down quickly, like a large canvas mast struck by the wind. The weight of his torso leans forward, almost bringing him down to the ground, before he springs up. A grasshopper is no country animal, although he lives in the wheat and the green grass on the prairie. He seems simple, yet is resolute in his hopping, scary almost, the way he reaches top speed like an aerodynamic machine within a short time. He becomes a blur, a blink of the eye.

The big auditorium is empty, except for the tap dancer.

I hear his feet echo in my mind.

Halloween

Like a rabbit escaping from the thicker psychological bramble of the Salem witch trails, Halloween is sugary these days, full of chocolate and fake blood, laughing kids and miniature Snickers bars. 

Our Own Nature (Travels to L.A.)

People are moving to L.A.

in their Volkswagens 

in their cargo pants

dreaming of being an actor

dreaming of being a writer

dreaming of being a waiter

until the lights turn on.

I can see the exhaust of their cars

filtering up off of the deserts 

in Nevada.

I can see their odd smiles

reflecting in the rear view mirrors.

I suppose we all have a little twinge

of ambition.

I suppose we all are like Turner 

ready to be strapped to the bow of a ship

and feel the waves

to get the sense

and the timing

of our own nature.

 

6 Days

6 days and 99 channels, nothing is on, except fear and misery, bottled up in a fashionable trend and sprayed like wildfire and Mountain Dew shook up all over the--

Did you hear that silence is golden?

Let me bite the coin and return again tomorrow.

Lemonade Braids

The lemon of her lips is making this sour kiss sweet.

The sugar king is cradling her broken back. 

He's back out on the street,

sifting through the cans and the Coke bottles

trying to find her feet.

Dance again?

These shoes are old. 

Like ballet slippers from when she was a little girl.

Who cares?

Life is short.

He remembers yellow taxi cabs and lemonade stands.

She tried to sell homemade wine until she was called in for supper.

The street lights were coming on, but she had a crinkled dollar bill.

The transistor radio was sinking in the ocean.

How did he ever think he would find the author of that lullaby

he used to listen to as a child,

hiding the music underneath his pillow

pretending to snore

when footsteps came?

It takes so. much. strength. to make lemonade,

twisting the half fruit and then pouring portion after portion into the jug.

It takes so. much. combing. to make the hair straight,

then smooth it out like Chinese paper before dividing it into three's.