The
visible succulent
Red ears repeat the redness of my history. Legs smoke as they spin. A hickory cane stands in for all the trees I’ve cut on. My dream, but your house.
The wild ones are shunning the willows which is fine with me because I enjoy the wispy-shaded solitude there. Like David, when I tire of giant shadows I tend to sling things.
The beginning trembles were so lovely but we stepped into the north shed anyway. That was around the time you began doing those song-bird translations in your sleep.
Why not tell me what they did to you, those people persons? I see your eyes darting under your eyelids. What does ‘naked to the waist’ mean? Up or down? You should never say “should” when you’re on a retreat. (Sometimes the visible world dims a bit.)
Sometimes the visible world dims a bit. Sometimes it doesn’t include even a tenth of our solar system. I blame the gardener who is obviously colluding with the forest ranger.
Verbatim interpretaion: I like your likeness everywhere. Water and its declensions. Salt and its shakers. Wordless talk.
Soft Aggression
Ourselves at home takes effort. But it takes a flying earth to lay down the furrows. I rotate my arms as if I’m swimming back to my island.
How do you make yourself feel in imaginary mirrors? Do your eyes accept their limits like tunnels holding back the pressure? I like to cut off the torsos a little lower than history allows. I remember when we looked under the water and I saw stones and you saw magma.
Now the impossible story/afternoon I dreaded. If I knew what I was thinking I could stop. Well, we’ll just see about that. As if by saying “out loud” we could eliminate the teeth sucking. The houses along the hill are already dark; that’s how long we’ve been fools.
If you could vaporize your enemy’s food. The problem is some are good neighbors. They build and grow. They have habits like trains. They throw their closets on you. I lie to them softly and say “good morning.”
In the interest of death, follow the same rules. I can hold up the horizon for you a little longer if you need things less perfect. It’s all those old dreams queued up behind you I’m worried about. The Ancient Nascents is what they’re calling themselves. I don’t know about you, but I’m putting on some clothes. I don’t like this kind of weathering.
We looked the other way as the reader stopped to regain his balance. All a ploy to throw his shoe. Where to stand now? Should we go for the fire pit or the door?
I’m holding my head in my hands and letting my body dangle. I’m at my home. Or just home. Now there’s a boy inside. As such, it’s all a proposition: how to keep the definition of ‘ambiguous’ ambiguous. When I wake I don’t remember this dream, only the one where I’m kicking the giant.
The plan for the day is to pick out a ladder. It will need to go up and up. Oh, and we need more clocks and maps. Some without barbs if you can find them.
Randy Prunty: I work for the Boulder Public Library and live with poet Elizabeth Robinson and our dog Brock.