Right now,
There is a tempest in my body’s body.
It’s unclear or unsure,
Within the vessel,
What’s really there,
What rhythms there are or were,
This storm has the logic of the air.
Maybe I’ve always been my own guide,
And looking back,
Within,
That appears to be true,
That appears to be something I do,
And find out later.
But peace must come,
Tranquility.
I had a dream two nights ago,
The goddess’ bookstore,
The romance section.
A split occurred,
Mumbled voices, said,
“Leave this to me.”
So I did,
And left the Store.
Outside,
I made two misfits levitate,
And Danny Divito,
Although he became a potato.
The misfits of the ilk of inner truth,
Night-time crawlers,
Sinister salt of civilization.
We convened in the parks,
Parking-lots, moth-popular lights above.
They shared their shallow dwellings,
And small families they loved.
After this,
The dream drifts off,
To an advert on radio,
For new family,
To intercede,
For entrants,
To say hello,
And that the mystery hadn’t been dulled.
I know it hadn’t anyway,
Because I am able to know things of this sort,
And I know when the building sensation,
Will fall off, fire off, or fall short.
He could predict when flies,
Paralyzed on the fire-wires of neon lights,
Could be reborn and reborn,
As clumping, lower life.
So we lose interest and sway,
And the sign below me says,
“Be your own guide,
When the day wains,
Be the wax,
And the source of light be bright,
And Our words be like wick.”
I am my own person anyway,
It’s fine for me to say,
And its fine for me to keep living,
For now,
In familiar ways,
In the soil, or the snow.
I shall keep my roots sunk,
And forget the metaphor’s vessel,
And release through it’s corroded hull,
Any hope,
It was a boat,
At all.
The Humble Rock Dove 