morning song

: of the parallax of parallactic drift of socalled fixed stars, in reality evermoving from immeasurably remote eons to infinitely remote futures in comparison with which the years, threescore and ten, of allotted human life formed a parenthesis of infinitesimal brevity.

______Joyce (Ulysses)






after me comes the flood, lizzy stewart
courtesy of: my love for you is a stampede of horses



i had a dream i remember; this is not necessarily a common phenomena (shame too, because i often regurgitate dreams when i: write, idly sit around daydreaming, speak in parables, fulfill tragi.self-prophecies). Again, at 5am, for no apparent reason, either i dreamed of a presunrise, or i woke up so that i could see my room, my blankets, the skin on my hands colored blue

the isolated tread of an early wayfarer, the visible diffusion of the light of an invisible luminous body...

perhaps there is a beautiful woman who jogs every morning at that hour- and the patter of whose feet rouses that part of my-self (sitting in my hair i imagine) that sits awake and keeps watch for these sorts of things,
____and once again, the presunrise, loitering outside my drawn curtains whispered her day's ambitions, as though of all half-asleep-dreamers, i was the most fluent in her language of hues and tones. and i don't know if it was before during or after the blue kiss of dawn that at my grandmother's house you were there, and i was there and avoided one another, and i took your bags for you to the airport and sat there and waited for you, and while i waited i disappeared and at the halfway point to the max elevation of a greenbeastmountain i drank an icetea. you appeared at the airport, where seated outside with a large suitcase i saw you come, stood. nodded, and walked away.

(and awoke feeling literally sick. three times to the bathroom, and even sitting here cramping inside me. guts and tendons and can feel the sinew in my neck twist itself around hoping to suffocate)


(like Joyce, i fear "the big words which make us so unhappy")

and we awake.
all of us
facing something.
(ourselves sometimes)
and we shrug,
and dream
and walk, mope, moan, matriculate, masticate morning breakfasts

determine in the odyssey of our day
so small
tiny
momentary
everything a god might have wanted us to know:
(about sitting in front of heaters still cold
and the milky white light of tuesday mornings,
and two lonely hands holding each other, linking yourself back to yourself,
_like a big circle of skin. a flesh-donut.
(turning around really really fast so you get dizzy
about memories of dancing,
soo long ago-
in a dark drawer in my head somewhere

____anyway.

my hair is longer.

i awake everyday at 5am like a chronograph machine. i am the sun's alarm. my waking stirs her to rise. she rises. i fall back asleep. only i don't know if i ever was awake. if it was her dream that leaked into my head (because outside my window she was whispering, smoking) (and because i believe if two people lie besides one another entangled, and dream individually, they can leak into one another in a blurry way that's kind of like lovemaking- but with your soul. so that in your sleep i can kiss the inside of your eyelids and sit in the darkness of your chest and keep you company because sleep is so lonely a thing- to be lost inside yourself for so long like that. (i won't leave you baby) (and if that's true, then maybe, for alonepeople, the sun sits by our windows and dips a finger in every so often, just push us past certain faces, certain airports, certain grandmother's houses, certain painted toes we've kissed, certain milkywhitelight afternoons we can't forget, push us past so as to not get entangled in too dark nights for too long, alone)
(or to wake to them in the morning)

(but to wake to nothing)

hi.
dear world,
dear everything,
hi.
dear me,
dear yesterday,
hi.
dear love(d)(s)
dear pandemonium
hi.
dear dear life:

__*
_ ^
_**

(a little nothing leans forward to kiss you.
and be infected by you into existence.
once again.
if you want)