i am truly taking the
last hits
of this bag
and am thinking
how i let you down,
and died at the
end of this dream.
i hear them knocking
all day,
these days,
but i wanna spend
my minutes between
you and the sad
winter sun
before i awake
and consciousness comes.
pictures paint words and all
but who’s to translate
painted word into digital vomit?
your words translate themselves
to pictures in your dreams and you
wake and find you fail to understand
the pictures;
the poetry
behind the prose.
it may not happen today
or may not happen soon,
perhaps not for 20 years,
until finally ready to exit,
Owen will spring forth,
fully formed,
not from the head,
but in the traditional way,
awkwardly,
gruesomely,
beautifully.
it might be slow to get going
but eventually it will
and when it does,
it will carry on,
ad infinitum,
and beyond,
for as long as we like,
never waning,
never lolling,
always good,
always too short,
until the time comes
and we have to go,
home,
away,
apart,
just when it started to get good.
In Boston
I see boxy blue cars.
Tired blue buzzards.
On roads, I can’t
Tell if they come or go.
Parked, I don’t know the front
From the back.
They have flown cross country.
Seen deserts and
Churning snow storms.
Fine Swedish engineering
You wish would last forever.
But I ride the train.
I come and go.
In giant, clanky lunch pails
On wheels.
Peeling and rusting on rails.
Full of boots and coats and earbuds
And more blank stares.
这么爱那个
坐被破的沙发上
永久未来变
love like this
seated on broken sofas
futures forever changed
