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JIMMY WARNER DESIGN,
Any Resemblance to persons living or dead is purely
I rarely reveal the name of anyone who may or may not be my
Lucid Dreams in
Search of a Poem
thought she’d lose me to an older woman
Met my college sweetheart in a local
bar, gypsy said she never thought she’d
lose me to an older woman. My sweet
older woman had more to offer than
hard pan wisdom. My new woman has
a life-long neurological disorder to
add to my lesson plan. She moves her
children in, too, but they soon run away.
Two more teens to discover, find ways
to answer eternal questions, solutions
put forth to confound them, no job
for poets, artists, musicians, witches.
I long to read the Tarot like the Gypsy,
sure that fate is sending out her signs.
We’re all IN there waiting to be found.
Brains are divided into fruit sections
like time travelers in search of a plot.
They squirt on queue but not in turn.
The plot thickens as time is reversed
and fruit becomes vintage memories.
Travelers invent a language used to
describe the process, but when they
breakdown we call them wordsmiths,
classify their works by type of poem
and light or heavy reading, scale from
left to right the caliber of skill needed.
No mention of the skill needed to put
them on paper, carve them out of an
old piece of dinner table leg while
translating the sound of TV war news
competing with shouting car salesmen.
Life is often used for creating new art.
The dream is stale, sweeping, softly
avoiding the key ingredients, a word
meant to disqualify any substance a
brain while meandering through its
cruise settings, fixity of steering and
view mastering, loses focus unable
to use in an evidentiary statement of
fact and therefore ends up a poetic
speech ruled inappropriate testimony,
unless, someone dies in that dream.
Prepare a defense for a later date
when crimes come back to haunt you
Memory glistens, a freshly bathed
beach rock, a striking nude body,
scintillating color of morning light
and only a mist of pixels imprint
a scatter of cells of living tissue.
Total boredom of a home movie
labored into paint by numbers and
begging to be numbed by alcohol.
The flicker sound of celluloid is
all we try to avoid when the room
lights up again, another round?
Forty poems old, my mind digs in,
looks for shelter on the driftwood
beach of a new life, vita nuova, a
port in the likely event of storms
where news comes over the waves
on oil stains, veins of black streak
and sandy patches, littered with
the tragic and the mundane, no
two objects connected by sense.
Life stops and starts again, again.
A dream that asserts itself among
legitimate literary concerns cannot
define a reason to be, shimmer and
sparkle run out the timer, strike a
set left on a still, calm heart where
the breathing is a lonely artifact.
Dreams of rigid objects in lucid
relationships do the talking and
complete the real poetry of life.
Concrete bowling balls roar along
emotional pathways only to crash
into stone memorials of white,
distant buildings with columns.
Alas, monument, we are quiet.
Girl next door, her hand in marriage,
light the silver coffee warmer, tell
your mother where to stand, queue
the rev, be of virgin mirth, put off
sentiment til the day you have some.
Invite your best friend to help with
your cigarette and blind fold... that
means I have to play music at my own
... wedding, how could this happen?
part I part
JW by JW
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