dream sequence #59 - flight plan
I'd love to get some feedback on this, inspired by Lorca's Arbol, Arbol and a sleepless night of dreams
drifting on the porous borderline
between different clarities of being;
ah claro! awake and dreaming
the decisive factor is to fully engage
this story will take place beneath
the most spacious of skies
mostly at night
trucks will continue to pass along the highway
illegal refugees will remain crouched in steel containers
unable to see castle’s silhouettes
on the dark horizon
wrong image – a night of love in a castle
is out of the question here
let’s see – factories, then
on the way to a harbour port
on a river
Plato’s pool
where shadows of water boatmen
row on a riverbed
over mosaics of stones
that’s better, but it’s too easy
to dissolve into water
safe in port, we’ll sail with the moon
under a Panamanian flag;
there’s time for a final drink in the tavern
where three pierrots in dominoes
tumble agile gymnastics
while a fourth picks pockets
oh, where is this dream going?
has it run away with the circus? can I be
the strong, the bearded lady now?
John and Yoko float by; music
from their big wide white bed claims
all you need is love
for everything else there’s amex
silver minnows of memory
seek sanctuary in deeper waters
become mercury walls
where young presidents are sausages
and down it all falls
junk dogs howl mean
at the midnight special express
no let down
no pick up
until the border
everyone prepares to be checked
some ingest illegal substances
others wash and comb, tidy and brush
some try to memorize the place-name of their birth
and sparrows explode from bare hedgerows
at even the thought of cat
in a place that once was Macedonia
we are here selling toys because war is imminent
or for a whiteware convention
I don’t recognize the face in my passport
in fact I’m sure all the details are wrong
I’m thirsty
the mirror wedged above the basin
reflects mountains, or is a painting
I burned in Australia a decade ago
peering closely, I can see myself on Blaze
halfway up the Great Wall, with eagles soaring below us
I’m heading west on the old pilgrim’s road –
why do you look at me in the Balkan courtyard
as if you still missed something? why is the fountain?
a single armed soldier comes by
in uniform but without a cap
hair tousled, face flushed
bums a cigarette and rushes off
perhaps searching for his unit
when you hear your footsteps on a dark road at night
do you know by their sound where you are?
I hear sand
squeak like dry snow, frozen grasses snap like twigs
up here above the tree line. luckily a rough track
of white-painted boulders shines against the grey
of rock and night, and shows the way.
someone has been here before me.
on top, land falls away in all directions.
I am thrust into the sky,
the grey arm of wind about my waist.
intent, I step out into it. I fly.
