Saturday, May 21, 2011


Sometimes when present stops, dries up,
the past opens its flood gates and
overwhelms you with your own strangeness.
Your tongue tasted things differently then
but now the air outside tastes of habitation
of quick meals and torn wings.

I can never stop dreaming of the mountains
of the future that is being played out there
over and over, as the present rolls away
January becomes May
a crease becomes a wrinkle.
but I still work out the details
each night toying with a split, wiggling toe nail
like a lingering memory of a nightmare.
I am my own waking dream.