Inspired by Brenda Jones: Dreams of Pie and Pope

Perhaps it’s the pope

decreeing dreams of fish-Friday

and slices of giant bunt cake.

Un-eatable.

Intoxicating.

Like a prison.

Built on the unattainable…

Desires.

Hungers.

I Don't Like the Cats on the Table

They walk in a box filled with their excrements

… you know.

If they could wash those tiny little paws

…it’d be okay.

Sink knobs are far to complicated, but

…someday.

They’ll have an understanding

…with me.

We’ll keep them of course, for you

…I promise.

To the Clouds in My Head

Too many words floating

around my head through,

ears trying to hear

music and rhythm

mashed together in confusion.

To just grab some,

to write them down,

in something you can feel

you can hear.

Words.

Gone

I’ve gone to see Friday,

because Mondaytuesdaywednesdaythursday

roam about at snail speed.

He’s cordially invited me,

and has a place for me to stay,

the weekend.

We’ve made plans you see,

Friday and me,

to do those fun things

the ‘weak’ days cast aside.

A blank-stare-vacancy-sign

and a body stuck between

Monday-schoolday-workday-Thursday

conceal the mind’s disappearance

to lazy grass nests and sleeping in

late.

Friday sits beside me,

calmly watching as the world

catches up.

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It’s the thing that slips between the fingers

as sand from the from the tropical coasts.

There’s one last grain, one last letter,

but falling captive to gravity and to doubt.

Like groping hands in thick black night,

stumbling for a clue or trigger.

The honest truth, there isn’t a hope,

just wild guesses in the dark.

Giving up would mean the end,

defeat in this civil war.

Mind always wins at intensions war,

and the casualties are always forgotten.

That first letter and the sound that it makes.

His first name and how you met.

Their first words and breath,

all grains of sand slipping past.

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I remember the night of ‘star dust’

Though now more like a vivid dream

After everyone was fast asleep,

But we just couldn’t say good night.

Huddled near for the sake of being closer,

Hands tangled tight like tree roots.

We now talk about things like hair roots

And how one day we’ll be dust.

Speaking words that could stand to be closer,

And huddling near is usually just a dream.

Visiting drives turn day to night,

When tired bones lye to sleep.

I hope you’re with me for the closer.

When the bright light shuts our eyes to sleep,

And we get to soar through air as dust.

Crest

I

I am my father’s

Colors.

Lanky build, brown hair, tired eyes.

I wave them proudly for all

And one day I want

To be a father just like you.

Don’t die.

There’s too much yet to say,

There’s too much to fix, build,

And share.

II

You were just a boy when your father passed.

You the eldest son of three

Making the sacrifices to make ends meet.

But I found your aspirations, hidden in a drawer,

Collegiate grades and letters buried thick in dust,

Dreams never accomplished.

Selflessness is what I see, I feel,

All for family…

I wave my father’s colors.

I dream my father’s dreams.