Monday, March 31, 2014

Dispatches from the Dream Factory

the picture's black
the picture lacks
an exchanges of letters on the tarmac

I spent a week there last Sunday
I died a dozen times

there's always more time than one thinks

a car engine backfires nearby

cauliflower eyes
alabaster heart
face like an old brown shoe

a life perpetually shadowed
a face on which photos fail
to trace the lines of years

a cracked armoire
tales of pre-war Metropolis
airships and glistening metal
the hiss of factory steam
shadows of somnambulists police the roads

all his wives were iron

I use spilled coffee
to trace clues on the kitchen floor
the lazy slide of shadow play
I remember byzantine tombs flecked with sunlight

each memory, a step to return
to that place
under waters of a cooler azure blue
I died a hundred times

obey the time

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