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THIS ARTICLE:
Any Resemblance to persons living or dead is purely
paranoid.
I rarely reveal the name of  anyone who may or may not be my personal friend...
or enemy.

OCTOBER  2013
 


Lucid Dreams in Search of a Poem
 



I took her girth, width and breathless.
 


Lucid Dreams in Search of a Poem


part IV continued...

                                         IV

Dream 22

It was the wreck of everything, theft of what was left,
can’t work with anyone who thinks his work is worth
more than yours. They beat you up, take back all you gave, that glitter & chill of nights long remembered.
You don’t even know what put you in this hospital.
Whatever it was became a white van haul, its load of
pawn scum goods to pile in a bay window, gig worn
gear to be peddled to starry-eyed kids, their turn now.  

Dream 23

The girl from Boston goes walking, police want to
know what she’s up to, pedestrians are not allowed
to walk at night even if you live in Tapioca Heights,
its light bulbs strung against the sky like an eternal  
Christmas, or boat festooned for giddy voyagers to
sail heedlessly into oblivion. A cautious civility on
stand-by guards your suspect whim to walk, if for no
reason but to grab the air and say, I just came from
Boston to see my guy, what’s wrong with that?

Dream 24

Married to the girl from Boston, soon she’ll take
me with her, stuck in the non-smoking section, a
temporary home in her borderline personality. I
won’t figure this out until I hear she’s taken my
little daughter, my grandmother’s namesake on     
down the line, the tracks going to the project in
N. Cambridge where the mass murderers live in
the total serenity of their alcoholic resentments.
Her excuse, she wasn’t allowed to be a teenager.

Dream 25

As if to help, the city teaches you how write a
résumé, excuse my French, teaches you how to   
exaggerate your skills and get the job you need.
You climb that mountain in the Bravo Sierras,
begin your rise in some vicious cut-throat game, 
electro mechanical layout and design drafting,
and sit in the cold room sculpting the substrate
of a warhead with fierce top secret clearance,
no intention of perspiring until the Claxton
sounds, driving you from the bldg to insanity.

Dream 26

In the art room of your own making, you play
with the leftover shapes of your life until you
discover your true self in wavy lines of peanut
butter clung to the side of recognition, looking
oddly like a rainbow, once the stuff of art you
obsessed over til a teacher shook you awake
yelling, “they’re just pictures, Jim, pictures!!” 

Dream 27

Art union exhibition convinces you to show,
so you flip the poster over and paint on the
back a landscape of confident strokes plum,
blue and red, like strokes of wisdom without
words, wilderness unfurled, painted energy
unleashed to fall a musical liquid on staves.   

Dream 28

Basement band for burnt out professionals
drones along, tunes of original agonies and
infantile disappointments, poetic words too
poetic for public consumption, curios in a
restaurant bay window crooning their jazz. 
The audience whispering please don’t sing.

Dream 29

Back on the road with motorcycle weekend
chicks again, her letters in my hand, just
drop ‘em, now, drop ‘em in the gutter now,
don’t look back, only couple a weeks later
she’s in the ice cream parlor on the phone
with me and I have to call in a favor and
get her a place to stay, straighten her out.
The rest of the tour was no different, can
tab lounges to the horizon and back, no end
to the infantile lessons I have to witness.

Dream 30

The naughty guy confesses all, despite  
the derision in the ranks that sent me out
into the night of Watertown diners and
Boylston Street studios, beautiful out-
 patients’ secret rendezvous, club lizards’
up-town weirdo joints, street professors in
dire dilemma, women set on dancehall
logic to deliver full impact, a social note,
a Figaro headline, poets’ Tuesday soirée  
announcement where dice roll but hazard
continues to sucker me with symbolism.
The wife will never see it that way, she
will only grasp the impractical solution.

Dream 31

Another professional art world lady to
my rescue, digs my art, takes me on as
an artist, text book case of text book
art evolving in text book fashion for
the primary student, learning to read by
shades of ice cream and non-racial
differences, cultural deference to all who
endeavor to leave a mark in the world.
On the way out the door she asks me,
“Have you ever tried greeting cards?”
“Yes, they all said to try illustration.”
 
Dream 32

Tech illustrator yells “your resume
says you know how to do that and
that ‘expertise further includes the
experience of having done it before’.
Are you shitin’ me? If I didn’t like
you I’d throw you out of here like
the sack of bull listed on your resy.

Dream 33

Numberless fripped spec control manuals,
Ansi standards and military documents up
the ying yang later, I find my self riding
shotgun on documentation, the boss only
interested in ousting the black, the Jew and
the crip. Get ‘em on the rules, the doc
standards they never read, I’ll back you up
if anyone shouts fowl. Why me, I think, this
isn’t a job, it’s an ulcer on my soul. I’m going
home with Gypsies, take Banja Luka wagons.

Dream 34

I took her girth, width and breathless.
A gypsy girl next adored, took her
from all of her jealous lovers and
set her down on my homeland  turf.
Put her thru nursing school and
put words in the mouths of her kids.
Learned a little a Polish from her
mom, before she tried to kill me
with a war axe. We got along fine.

Dream 35

Still a shopper, I’m making cigarette
production machines, aluminum
can line monitors, storage dam wire
charts, flow logic diagrams and read
blueprints to myself without need of
interpolation, but if I move my elbow
my head will hit the drawing board.
Soon I’ll stop drinking, say night-night
to the Poles and go back to my music.


part I   part II    part III     part IV   part V

 

 


  
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©Jimmy Warner Design 2013

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