Tag Archives: dreams

I Dream of Indiana

I dream of Indiana, because of a woman.

I dream of Indiana, too dream of something.

Cold and grey days, colorless at noon today,

I dream of her, and how we know the score.

 

Some rural town, like the one I’m in now,

with mustard yellow silos pricking the sky

and a smattering of houses in the dead fields,

and the ubiquitous chain stores in town.

 

I dream that in a place even drabber, colder,

than the place I am now, just as empty, burning,

as left behind and sighing, that with her there,

I could be happy, content, settled.

 

Years ago, when we were young, we partied

and we knew heartbreak and loss and hope

and magic in the sung words, the right note

of a tragic and sorrowful song.

 

We knew the promise of April and spring

and the soft and warm sunshine through a

classroom window, the joy of connecting,

as we smoked cigarettes at shitty parties.

 

And know, older and greyer and fatter, left behind,

I dream of her and that grey prairie state, of finding

her and beginning again, recapturing something my

broken mind and scorched heart has lost.

 

I dream of Indiana because of a woman.

I dream of Indiana to dream of something.

Fools errand. Our moment has passed forever.

But I dream to escape the terror of silence.

 

The terror of my own thoughts.

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Diane

French accent as thick and sweet as an eclaire.

Rag tag and bright are warm clothes you wear.

I see oceans and Rivera skies in your blue hair.

High fashion, cool, something French New Wave.

You and me, dining and dancing, no world to save.

I would be your man, and I would always be brave.

Sharing a cigarette under a black umbrella, content.

Walking hand in hand, not caring were the night went.

I dream these things, of love of you; Dreams don’t repent.

France Gall, chirpy and naïve, plays on my headphones.

In passing we are friends, and I put that flesh on bones.

Dreams are the river washing smooth discontented stones.

So High, So Bright


 

Tanya Was Dreaming

Tanya was dreaming, halfway to heaven and the stars,
and she comes down now, shaken awake,
and writes the words of her soft visions.
The music Matthew plays, on the little 4-track,
through the cheap headphones, still whispers
those angel voices in her ears, heard in the sky.
The night is warm, and gives rest now,
as she writes the words, and sings them for him,
the marriage that comes from their marriage.
Her voice clear as rain, warm as the stars,
along with the enveloping tones, the soft wings,
flight for a restless mind.
Tanya and Matthew cuddle on the couch now,
his arms around her as if in prayer, as if in thanks,
and together they dream in the sky.

Talent and Communion

I hear her, Natasha, playing the piano, singing low, writing a song.

               I sit in my study, pausing from the page, listening to her, high, sweet.

               I’m trying to put her on the page, story about a boy and a girl in love,

               And the strange world they find in the forest that was a childhood Eden.

 

               All day we work at our different talents, our different worlds and dreams.

               I smile and return to typing, the boy and girl having met an angel who has

               Put down his flaming sword and allowed them into the world of wonders,

               Where for the briefest of moments they will be pure light and absolutely free.

 

               At the end of the day, as night falls, we’ll eat dinner and talk about our worlds,

               The places we go that are only ours, and piecing them together as we can,

               To show the world, to strum their night to see if any have ears that can hear,

               Hear our dreams and loss, and seem themselves in our most secret, sacred light.

All Too Soon

Two rooms, all alone, where I can be anyone.

               I can be the man that gives her a gold ring.

               I can be Archangel Michael, slaying the Red Dragon.

               I can be whole and good and full of light.

 

               Two rooms, my home, where I dream

               And write the words that bleed out poison.

               Where I dream of a love that might save me.

               Where I fear the death of warmth in humankind.

 

               I can dream my love into my amrs, as I lay in bed,

               And make believe there’s anything for me to give her.

               I can dream her fingers touching me, her kips kissing me,

               Can dream us making love and dreaming on a rainy afternoon.

 

               Two rooms, where I can imagine keeping out death

               And the war coming all too soon, and the heartbreak

               Of never finding the place where it all makes sense

               And they welcome you with open arms, just as you are.

 

               Two rooms, a tiny paradise, that will burn like Eden

               In the war coming all too soon.

With Their Thunder

Dreaming of Paris in spring, as I look out the window at dreary winter.
Dreaming of riding on narrow streets on a scooter, a pretty girl holding on to me,
her dark hair blowing behind her like the banner of Joan of Arc,
and with all the holiness of a love divine.
The mountains block the sky, the clouds ever low and colorless.
I dream of her, Francoise Hardy on my headphones, as the bus rolls on,
of her face veiled in cigarette smoke, and her smile cruel and full of promises,
walking hand in hand in ancient streets.
Dark hair, perfumed and silky, just us in the regal and pristine moonlight.
Someplace better than the rut in the earth that is this fucking town.
Filling my face with those dark locks, feeling the soft warmth of her skin,
as we kiss, kiss deep and hard and passionately, as the sun rises up.

Just Another Chance To Dream

Too early to be up, to be away from dreams, from peace.
The sun isn’t up and it’s cool, something soothing for me.
Alone, quiet, maybe the roar of rage with fade away for now.
I don’t know what to do with it at all, what can be done anymore.
 I dream of Brie, quirky and sweet, or so I believe, the face I put on her.
I dream of us having a beach vacation in South Carolina, happy in the sun.
I dream of holding her hand and holding her and holding on to a sweet thing.
I dream of some perfect life with her, to chase away the rage eating me up.
 Maybe I’ll lay my head down on my desk, close my eyes, push away thought.
Just count to ten, thinking of her face, and all she makes me believe in again.
And sleep, just a little more peace, just another chance to dream, to be an angel.
The sky in the city has no stars, but we can fill our hearts with the universe, if we choose.

Solace In The Time Of Death

Ellen watches out her window, at the clear, snowy day.
The TV cheerfully babbles cartoons and high spirits,
but she doesn’t hear it at all, only watches the snow
and the colorless, glass sky, and mourns the sun.
 She remembers walking in tall, tawny grass, the sun
warm on her face, the breeze on her bare arms,
the promise of something magical in those deep woods,
in the whole of the day stretched before her.
 But the world was now cold and without pity,
all the pretty things and bright colors had been put away.
She was stuck inside with the TV or the radio, or her own head.
She was inside all day, and her spirit ached and bled.
 She lays down on the floor, TV still blathering, still empty,
and wishes away the roof and calls down the sun, the hot
light and all the cold waters and green forests and bright blooms,
all the wonders of summer and the remembrance of paradise.
 And there she stands now, the TV gone, the snow left behind,
in the deep woods, near the cold waters, with all those bright blooms
nodding their heads in supplicant prayer to her. She is here,
in that cherished world, without death or fear or sorrows.
 Her kingdom, solace in the time of death.

Brie

Brie lives in my best dreams,
walking hand in hand, laughing,
the world wonderful and bright.
 She’ll dance and spin on her heels
and I’ll laugh and do it too, not a care.
Then we’ll run for no reason at all.
 Sit in the park, eating a lunch, talking,
and just innocent in the sun, simple things
making so happy and free.
 In the dark, after all the rage’s bled out,
after all the awful I do to my mind, my soul,
as I graps at any sort of peace, innocence.
 I dream this life with her, my dream girl,
my angel, my light in the pit of my heart,
where sex is loving, where love is kind.
 As the morning light comes, I dream of her,
sitting by the river, just perfect and still,
the light haloing her head.
 I think of her, lost in a fitful sleep.