trying to move, feeling
so depressed, like dark clouds
sponsoring wall-bangers,
a million tingles itching me to open
my eyes, the drug-haze lifting so I
thought I saw your face, but nothing
entered and the dream continued, very
little rain, some fog, my old
neighborhood filtering a green space,
and the phone sat on the table,
its speaker image three feet long,
with microscopic snakes dripping
out of its orifices, and
the ring tone straight out of
Screamin' Jay Hawkins,
a coffin, a skull, and
your beautiful mouth promising
Colgate white teeth.
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
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Kathy