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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