- Dream Poetry -
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UNSHAVEN I TURN THE NIGHT
unshaven i turn the night on an uneven axis
work the dust of industry into garbage bins
that will be certainly empty by morning
the worker i relieve is old
walks with an angry limp
tells me he is god, fallen upon hard times
& god, having lost his national grant, works the swing shift
on a lathe that performs no real miracles
but he collects the shaving
& in the deepest darkness of night he melts them
in a pot as black as despair
molds them into figurines that gather upon a dusty shelf
he tells me when he has amassed a perfect army
(dormant angels, he calls them)
he will free himself from the chains of his own slavery
& build himself a perfect paradise in the night skies
beyond the corrupting fingers of this thing called man,
this the worse of all his creations,
man that discovered it all too possible to create (to take) life
unshaven i turn the night into little pieces of dreams
that fly (between broken castles of industrial giants)
as bats seeking open fields & survival
* * * * *
SCENE FROM A DREAM
the policeman asked if i had a match. i shook my head no.
his eyes
studied me as if i were charles manson reincarnate, but said nothing as
i walked away. deliverance was not salvation. rain spotted my glasses &
my ulcer spoke in short but terse sentences.
two hookers on the street corner -watching their reflection in shop windows - make eyes at mannequins. they ignore me as i limp by, the ghost of discarded dreams, hardly a vision worth attainment.
in the mail, the editor of "O" writes i am a blasphemy, a degradation.
i look at my hands, gnarled & red from a frozen wind offering no wisdom.
i see his point. unfortunately, i find no razors, no poisons. i am
forced to live another tortured day. i find a stamp, a soiled envelope &
write a few curses to tell him so.
* * * * *
(c) Kenn Mitchell, 1998