No Dreams

No Dreams

Last night
I had no dreams.
No fine figment fingers
Followed my spine,
Only pillow-soft embraces.
No Dali escapades,
No fevered Bosch inventions
Punctured my blank black sleep.

Entry #3: Small Sacrifices

Here's a rough draft of a poem that I have been working on. I got the idea after I sliced the tip of my thumb off while fixing potatoes, and called it a sacrifice for breakfast. This is the only bit that I am satisfied with so far -


Small Sacrifices

A small boy
stood up on a
bench in the park
and toppled down
face first in the path
the pebbles splitting
the forehead, opening
the third eye, anointing
the sidewalk with blood.
Since my infancy, I have spread
small sacrifices across the surfaces of the world.

Poem #1: The Closest I Get to Magic

This is an older poem, probably originally written around June 2005. Edited again today.

"The Closest I Get to Magic"

purple music from flesh tasting mouths;
this is the closest I get to magic.

secrets are revealed clumsily, hastily.
quick, in one motion,
rip away
all fear, all modesty,
like a bandage.
lick, love, learn new intimate openings.

trace circles on tight, cool skin
inscribe mysteries along the notches of the spine
taste a few more drops
of whatever makes you thirsty:
one last long salty suck from the sea.

run your hands over warm flushed flesh
bathe yourself in the afterglow
spread it across your landscape in palmfuls,
touch the slightly jutting bone of your hips -
and remember.

I dream
of future days, of looking back,
of how I will see you:

timid eyes and smile; curled coyly beneath sheets;
hungry, fasting flesh;
how I tasted you
and your perfect imperfections;
the shades of color
that flowed across your skin -

the shades of color
that flow across your skin
as your eyes move
across this page.