April 26, 2009 § Leave a comment

in my dream this morning

i talked to my father

about not talking to him

we camped in between cotton couches

underneath a small chandelier swinging

surrounded by white tile

cheap nicotine

unwashed black skin


i climbed the stairs to my bedroom

and slept

tonight the wind blows

striped curtains across the cracked dirt

in plastic pots

my eyes startle awake

every 37 seconds

looking for a title

to this moment passing by

but moments dont get titles

or returned phone calls

or a fortune forcast

no most moments slip

like an engine bouncing

against the red cars frame


and at the last minute/second/moment

zooms passed stop lights

into the horizon of crowded streets

full of babies and beggar old men

like my father walking

hunchbacked wary

his brain knotted in fists

knots that dont untie

no matter how many moments

pass by

out of the door

carrying an army duffel bag

looking back at a dream

thats already passed me


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