Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Waking Up with June Allyson

I just awoke in stages – bumping, twitching, blinking –
from a 1940s sound stage, come to think: half pink-
furred poodle and half twirl-tressed movie star
June Allyson, whose laryngitic voice was just then
shoving through my throat as I awoke: came out
a choke of an unlovely bubbling: rattling, battling
breath: all reeled right into my awakened flesh. In fact,

my inner and my outer eye smacked right into each
other – both at once beheld the bug-eyed moon at
noon, the blundering sun at midnight. Whatever doubt
that where I was in dreams was any different from
where I was in my daylit schemes, had scattered
into misty bits. Miss Allyson’s and my voice rasped
in chorus: “Something fits!” I knew, as if by a decree,

the atmosphere above my dreaming ocean was made
of the same components in that sea: neither was more
clear, less real. The psyche doesn’t have to sneak
or steal to fill a lack: it never doesn't have enough
to play its acts – there never is too little or too much.
It bumbles, gasps and goes full blast from dusk to dawn
to dusk. I knew it wasn’t only in the weave of dreams'

imaginings that I lose touch: I lose touch, just as much,
awake all day! I vow now to invite my inner eye and outer
to reune soon. I’ll say,“Hey! Knit the day and night into
a festival of playlists: unite your dream songs with crisp-
consonanted speech!” I’ll encourage each to beckon
each into connection with the unimagined wonders
in each other’s realms, now no longer out of reach.


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