Stolen the shawl from the shoulders of night
Slipping away with the dawn
Folding down the duvet, the new day
Stretching glossy nailed sentinels to
Rub the sleep from lashes of tell tale
Dreams that took mundanity into
Fine wine and rich red realms
Fresh out of tactics to ring in favours
The sheets depart my limbs and
Water connects skin on skin
Fluffy spurs washed away clean
Spun out of secret doors into the unknown
Shoving me, nudging me, reminding me
I’m heading to reality
Tipping my head toward the warm air
The continuing whirring of its mechanism
Vibrates my follicles and lends me in the
Direction of humanity, the peacock
Plume doused and preened into shape
I begin the trawl of closet colour
Of mood matching, of image portrayal
Set for the external clock to tick
I trust myself that wheels upon tarmac
Will hold me to my destination
Releasing me safe and sound to the
Jaws of business, its never ending
Narcissism purchasing my daily bread
Released from the bind weed of
Incongruence, sheltering under the
Safe shell of my emerging reality
It comforts my bones, grazing me with
Honesty and genuine intuition that
Hope isn’t baron or depleted
Grandeur awaits me and I am true
To my facing stare.....reflecting
I'm tucked up in the duvet
You try to see what's underneath
While I'm busy wondering
If there's still spinach in my teeth
Trying desperately to breathe in
So you won't see my wobbly tum
I get the idea you want something
As I feel you pinch my bum
You snuggle up real tight to me
And promise never to let go
Then looking lovingly into my eyes
"You forgot to make cocoa."
At night they all come out to play.
Students working their way down the alcohol alphabet,
quick peeks at the girl with a red bra behind the bar.
Those stuck on third-floor offices all day
find themselves in third-floor hotel rooms
with assertive little things, names elapsed with the close of a door.
Men with more than a few moss green notes
and women whose fingers are painted silver
burrow into theatres to watch comics or prancing dancers.
The dudes in the taxis, one behind the other
sit static in traffic, chuck abuse at those in front
while two upper eastsiders get off on the backseat.
But me? No, I’m not like the others,
for I sit beside my partner on my cool blue duvet
and a bowl of candy, the movie about to start.
Its rhythmic charade ticking, ticking, ticking perturbs me a great deal
It is trying to force on me a sense of living within and not outside its boundaries, making me feel trapped
I shift my legs slightly and my shorts rise up clinging to the tops of my thighs in disordered precision
I throw the duvet back and observe, without seeing it the discourse of history in my blood
I hear it; feel its silent speech, its frantic rush, and its inner dialogue like a hidden undercurrent coursing through all my veins.
The inner space of speech, the redundence of images a sympathetic attunement to the dimensions of words that are the medium of my new translation.
A new complete language, now, for the first time accompanies my thoughts.