Summer

It is the third time this year

summer aged for her,

every night for eighty-four nights

golden dreams reincarnate

as the hours relive

and we count with our fingers

with fatigue, not pity.

 

For even as her lips stretch wide

she is glistening with the sweat

of labor and heart disease, her

empty hair and amber teeth shredding

stream-like into bighearted bouquets

open for age only.

 

Now we stand by

with nimble eyes without words

We save our condolences

for her funeral in a summer evening:

Her body, hairless head and all

will lose its last color

shielded in white linen in vain

against summer invasions

And before she returns elemental

to her mother, we will adorn

her celestial eyes with colorless kisses

and pray

for the death of summer.

 

A Chronicle of My Dreams #1

This dream is from earlier, but one of my best dreams:

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My humanoid mount

I was a warrior about to carry out a mission in the Saharan desert and my mentor offered me a mount.  He seemed to have placed food on me because the horse—in fact not at all a horse, but more like a combination of mule and dog, white and flurry and not reaching my hips—plunged into me and started licking me. It turned out that he could turn into human form—a clothed, adorable, somewhat sexless little boy when transformed. Although he was small and his hips were a soft bony triangle it seemed to make him a perfect mount. It was comfortable and he did not suffer from my weight at all despite my worries. So I was ready to go. I felt mingled fear, excitement and dread as I said to my mentor, “I never thought I would be in a life and death situation like this.” In fact I did not fear pain at all—it was established then that being attacked would not hurt—but only the possibility of nonexistence.

Hydrolysis

                   The day Mother’s severed

 arm sailed across

                             the abandoned

                    train station my 

 hopes grew

                    a detonator, my 

                                                lips fell

to my feet.

                                                    Now 

                              four score years

                    later   my religion is 

             abducted  my

                                  hate a plastic 

                      dream   my 

                                          silence

            ten-year-old and 

still growing


The 

                  detonator 

under my skin

                                     hydrolyzed

                   into fear.

Removal

FullSizeRender 19

We remember her

by the eyes only, two

three dimensional black holes

of blood and bad dreams diluted

we hold them with our teeth the way

she used to hold her tongue

with her lips her

shrinking lips for she had a way

 

of shortening them, the upper petals

diminished

in poor taste, I said. But she never

listened to me with her

starlet dreams and starlit breath emanating

 

betrayal and I

my eyes double-folded my cheeks

burning with displacement and shame

thrust my paws through the heart

of her disease. I never failed

to remind her

of a dying mother.