How Long Must I Dream - A poem for Dane and Claire.

How Long Must I Dream

How long must I dream?
Forever.
Alive in the space between dreams and awakening truth
The perpetual becoming mixing with mystical memories
And I work and wait and work and wait
And stop to listen to the sweetness.

How long must they dream?
Forever.
Asleep in the moment encircling each other
Embodying the imaginary; making meaning out of make-believe
And they rest and wait and rest and wait
And stop to listen to the sweetness
Together.

How long must she dream?
Forever.
Apart in the desert divining the deep water
Intuition manifestly quenching all futures
And she tastes and waits and tastes and waits
And stops to listen to the sweetness.


How long must he dream?
Forever.
Alone in the winter reckoning with the ancient mystery
Burying the remainder of the frozen rainclouds
And he looks and waits and looks and waits
And stops to listen to the sweetness.


How long must we dream?
Forever.
Anew as the one-flesh incarnate each moment
Forgiving and fulfilling and sha-da-da-ing the infinite possible
We kiss and wait and kiss and wait
And stop to listen to the sweetness
Together.

AutomatiCity

Automaticity Automatic City

I am, all by myself, a city

There are parts of me where White women do not go at night.

An urban planner envisioned my entrails.

Parking is a problem.

Locals say genital gentrification is on the rise.

Neighborhoods aren’t what they used to be.

Industrialization and a lack of public transportation

The school district in my spinal column is in shambles.

Mayor Mouth is corrupt.

The whole damn city council is a colonic croc of shit.

But the artists are putting down roots.

Culture is being crafted in my esophagus.

Silicon Valley has an eye on the clavicle real estate market.

Perhaps next year there will be a renewal of self.

Now it is mostly plastic bags stuck in stubby trees.

I have a book problem

The following essay is to be read aloud in a mid-atlantic accent while wearing an imaginary tweed jacket with preten(d)tious elbow patches and smoking this Rene Magritte painting.




I have a book problem. More precisely, I have a problematic lack of space for all of the books I wish to own. As with most recovering addicts, I have self controlled and shamed myself into not living out my worst literary fantasies. Somewhere in the multiverse there is a hoarder version of me with stacks to the ceiling of things I am going to read again when I have that mythical extra time. A Little Free Library in Fisher Park near my house would go a long way in ameliorating my book/space problem. More importantly it will keep me from passing on this disease to the next generation. I fear my 3 year old may also have a book problem. Hers is still just an innocent yet insatiable appetite for more and different books. It has not yet devolved into my capitalist desire to own and keep. Help me as I seek to live out and teach an ethos of sharing. Assist us in our pursuit of ideas over objects by providing my family a Little Free Library in our neighborhood.