Saturday Spindrift

Some people wait for aliens like
pensioners wait for their checks.

I sat in an empty theater and
watched a movie on my phone
I fell asleep while the credits rolled
and woke up and married an usher.

As my fingers wiggle through
grubby couch cushions
searching for change
for the laundry
I realize
life is largely spent
chasing the dirt away.

I gave an interview to the news
to stay away.

And the bees circled my flowerbed.

And I welcomed them.

As the nights lit fire into days
As the Earth oscillated orgasmicly
on a sea of space and semen
As we grew legs and flew into the blue
As little chicks broke through their eggs
a trillion dust particles settled on your skin
And I woke up to this dream of me.

I rode a cosmic caravan through the countryside
but bought into a contemporary city condominium

Some times it’s not the levels of cream, it’s just bad coffee
my 32nd floor office is too brittle for Seattle
I’m thinking of moving to the creek, furnish some moss,
find some tree with some bark to leave my mark.

I’m thinking of joining a cult — as long as theirs
free airfare sign me up. I came down from the
cloudy mountaintop
just to let you
rub my belly.

There’s a slight taste of the dream
in the salty spindrift Saturday serenade,
like cinnamon and honeysuckle television
waves passing over a blanket of time
we were meant to lie under.

I never supposed we all spoke the same
language. This little hut was never supposed
to be permanent. There was fruit rotting
into the jungle floor. And birds trying to mimic
the sound of car alarms. And the sky was
diaphanous and damaged and so was she.

The light you allow through
is the one that will bathe you
in its hue.

Our little words like little birds
landed softly on the arms of our thoughts
and the bough of time reaching over the creek
and over the city buildings dropping leaves
into the ripples we saw our reflections.

I travel far but go nowhere.


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