Dreamtown
 
If you have ever been to Denial
(can't imagine you haven't)
you know
it doesn't rain.  Oh, a few drops
mist.  Feel like rose petals warmed
to match your skin. No fake rose
odor, but the real thing.   Few clouds
are whipped potatoes with gobs
of butter and half-and-half.  Cream
matches the texture of your skin
the minute you hit the main street.
Called Nirvana.  Crosses Dream.
No biblical scholar, but I know
that somewhere it says that wine
is an asp that turns and bites.  To
my sorrow, even Denial knows
it is so.  The irony is that Denial
draws me more.  Time there
is slow when you want slow,
lightning when lightning you need.
Mirrors are glazed with amber-
rose that flatters every face.  
Frown, and it reflects a smile.
Hidden speakers give you Voice.
Every word you say is brilliant.
Every word you write surpasses.
Everyone loves you, except those
you love to think hate.   Pain
disappears as you skip,  lithe
as a kindergartner, along Candy
Lane.  (Parallel to Slender, a cul-
de-sac have to see to believe.)
Try to take my Denial away.  
Just update your will and say 'bye.
Me, I'm on my way to Perfect Sex
at that place on Balmy.  Line
up after (but not long) to dance
to an oldies.  Lie beneath a sky
rife with stars to listen to the sea
shush with rhyme.   Tell the truth.
'Be in the next towel-draped chaise
in a flash.  Can't blame!

(c) Phyllis Jean Green, Autumn, 2007