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Wyatt
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Posts : 325
Join date : 2008-09-22
Age : 26
Location : Albuquerque, NM

PostSubject: Waking Moment   Mon Jun 06, 2011 4:09 pm

The bed covers, shuffled into a mound
Where the boy sleeps in the morning
And the lawnmower droning sounds
Of clippings, and pollen,
Yawning in the cave of sheets,
Cocoon of a fantasy,
The boy drifts on mind-water
Watching purple stars,
Slips through currents on driftwood planks
And pearl blankets
Rippling white
And he doesn't hear the morning
And he doesn't see the window or the light.

The wind blows hard tonight
Burying me on the pavement
Not quite six feet deep.
The bike tires beneath roll on
Roll over my grave and over
Bridges
And over the howling train
Of hot fog
And a forlorn horn
Along the sullen river
Bejeweled in black iron
And embraced in smoke,
Hound beneath the road--
The train passes under the bridge.

I pass on, cradled by the wind
Into the half-lit city,
Light dividing space
At closing hours, when the janitors
Possess their buildings,
The sprites of vacancy.
They dance dirty with mops
In honor of the empty city
And the barred gates
The streetlights make.

They feel me pass and shiver
Staring at their reflections in black windows.
Tick tick tick the bike
Cackles off the road,
A scarecrow slinking,
Night of the cycling dead.

I have an urge to be alive
And dance with inanimate brooms,
Achieve happiness in empty rooms,
Be satisfied with starry sleep
In a cave of color and air
But the Spirit isn't there.

One day I will be good
And dead, as the janitors will be
Good and dead, as the world will be
And even now we are dead.
Time is not eternal.
Purple diamonds in their starry bed
Are the coals that fill the train smoke
Chugging on through dreams of air.

Even now, the bike cackles under me
Like a ghoul through suburban streets
And I sleep still under the sheets.
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