These strange surrealist poems are what I consider dreams in word form. They resonate in a strange deep place for me. There are connective threads in them but they are tenuous.
I say I want curtains to keep out the sun keep the rooms cool protect ourselves from summer and the bracing swarm of humidity
Dark wood-lined and smelling of oranges the box is always this damp - a tomb - a calm sigh from my mother - a metal grate a preacher
I crawl through the sharp inclined tunnel of blackness in my sleep and see into a valley of searing greens there is a tree filled with pears
What I mean to say is that I find myself thrashing in water while I sleep that the water is my bed and my bed seems to be made of bones
Pear flesh feels like sand soaked in cherries - harder - pearls - smaller - spider eggs - I feel like I am popping everything
And the sun always comes in year round it is light - a growing thing - but it does blind
I am n love with the idea of being in love I don't understand a picnic from a parade - there s a rose bush taller than Empire State and I am clipping the thorns...