haze of vague

in the dream
i can see patches of veins/capillaries appearing and traveling up my right arm
as it begins going numb
and i’m asking around about getting to the doctor hospital
before the poison makes it
to my heart
and then i also notice
two deep puss-ing punctures
which later are four
spider or snake i wonder
we live in tree forts and there is a tiny bit of rain
falling down and i realize my tree fort bed has no roof
and i think of the quilts
but let it go because it’s been a dry season
first i ask tyler to call
and he ends up cycling through a bunch of different menus and options on the phone
and asking me questions about the right way to do it
at which point i thank him and take the phone and call myself
and then i am in a pub asking some youngish manish stranger (who wears glasses and seems nice)
and he walks away (to go grab a phone, or some other ‘be right back’ kindof situation’ though he never returns)
_______

the bend and sway of trunks and branches
as seen upon waking
through the long rectaingle of loft window
also: sun glowing in
and saturated blue sky
_______
how the gravel road underneath the car tires
is as hard and smooth as concrete
and how when i look in the rearview
i can see tufts of white dust rising
in my wake
_______
the one neon green legwarmer on my right leg at ultimate spring training
because somewhere on my way out the door
i dropped the other one

_______
san diego collection and
ex-lover i say
when cynthia asks about the quilt
draped like a skin over the skeleton
of the drying rack
_______

the snowy-weather-looking haze of vague purples/pinks/grays/blues
along the horizon
at dusk
_______
the orange/red and white whisper of fins/tails circling
in the just-cleaned fish tank
the swimming shimmer so stunning-bright
it almost hurts to behold
_______
kitchen sounds noted at 6:33pm:
the steady small rush of air and crackles coming from the woodstove,
the loudest clock (generic, round, plastic, runs on AA batteries) ticking,
the occasional dog-sigh issuing from jack passed out near the stove,
the movement of ballpoint pen making these marks across paper,
the rooftop whirly gig humming and rattling

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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