I sit beneath a painting of Kerouac
in thick shades
of gray and try to digest
the fact that I am older than he
will ever be. I should
be so privileged to pass
Emily and Virginia. I’ll prefer
mine lilac and thinner
than the rim of ice
hovering along these northern banks
of the Mississippi. This January
moves unnaturally fast.
A dream is only as true
as its recounting. Insert stalks
of wheatgrass embedded
in translucent partitions
for accent. An ocean
spilling forth on all sides
gets pulled inside
out to become a Midwestern
lake not frozen enough
to hold those images
of ice fishers under
glass. You shake
yourself awake
to make up
what you won’t remember
one hour into it.
Tide rises from all sides—this surround
won’t bring back my father’s words of advice.
In a dream, I refuse to walk along the granite bluff
with my sisters—this is no return to Ireland. This is
what gets made
up before dawn closer to the Mississippi
than any hint of salt. Pastels
on sleeves—watercolors in the sky—pollution
at dusk—can’t have a January
thaw without a frozen
plain. A surreal ocean
comes to mind.
Today’s investigation, a brand new
skyway smells like
a new car with music seeping through
its air vents. It takes me
through a different artery in the maze. Roots grow
to the first floor becomes a pink lit
W Hotel lobby. A vintage Foshay Tower
elevator car secures
me to the 27th floor. Spectacular view—yes. Cocktails—
yes. Eleven dollar nuts
and nothing else for the likes of me. I could ask
for an espresso but
this is enough discovery for one civil
twilight. Outside’s halo holds
only a spit of pink
inside heliotrope.
I’m trying to do the math; then he says it.
An actor becomes a narrator
who mentions the year he was born—is the year
I learned to walk. No coincidence,
no fate—just a fictional character
sending texts to a woman
fond of tracing shadows
without an overhead light.
Ice bevels
on the sidewalks where property
owners forget what they own. Pedestrian
and unlanded, I perform
penguin walks for too many blocks.
And the sun—the sun, it taunts
the frozen landscape
to no effect.
Light pollution
enhances her cravings
for the perfect
constellation, for an evening
spent outdoors
without fear. Each wave
lengthens or shrinks
to spell out
new acts of bravery
in a host of colors
beginning with red,
ending up yellow
just before it turns
green. Snow piled
on a skylight won’t last.
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,500 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 42 trips to carry that many people.
She turns off
movies just before
the last scene, closes
books and shuts off
the light with five pages
left to read. She forgets
the definition of closure—
still talks to exes alive
or dead. Never
celebrates New Year’s Eve
where anyone can see her. Stops
writing a poem without completing
the arc
I dream of sipping espresso
from a tiny ceramic cup
in a hotel bar high
above the streets
and skyway. And I tower
over a city that dreams
bigger than it looks. They call it
Prohibition—it’s not illegal
for an alcoholic
to recover the view.
