No shaman for me.
Unlike you, rich seeker,
I can’t afford pay-for-view visions.
No dream catcher for me.
Unlike you, pow-wow tourist,
I am clumsy with my elusive dreaming.
No bow, no arrow, not even a kinfe.
Unlike you, Injun great-grandchild,
I know what a good investment a gun can be.
No long hair, no leather, no…
no. Stop, friend, and I will too. I’m dying
from ensuring that I am not your fantasy.
Ay, roomful of columns of eyes
and mouths in Fibonacci
swirl, and then I spy
a half-chewed apple.
The apple is breathing,
or it was until just now.
The mouths were after the apple.
The apple was some being
that only looked like an apple.
I cannot speak of the eyes
in the nautilus cloud
above us all. What they are,
what they saw before I came upon all this.
It had no interpretation before I saw it
with my own eyes. So, call it murder
or bad dream or
something I ate.
No matter. I blink.
If you wake tomorrow
to a song with a violin and a steady drum,
do not step into the day
and away from the music
too quickly, occupying yourself
with the business of living
instead of the joy of it.
Really, how often does it happen
that you wake up early for work
with a sweet fiddle in your ear
and a lover next to you?
Don’t the soft drum
and the sidling of the wicked bow
suggest something other than
getting up for work?
Dark Matter 