Visions of a Another Life/ Dream Story Poems

At The Edge of Day

Here, on the borderlands, we live in paper houses

Sleep on rocks and logs and bathe in the rain.

It is a striking existence.

We are made substantial by our deeds and voices.

Water clouds the world with wet and weather

Brings toads writhing up through the mud,

Cactus into bloom.

Pain brings clarity to our dreams and

Staggers through our days like a drunkard

On a ship in a howling storm.

The tossing straightens its path into our hearts.

We breathe the air of desperation.

In the smoky evenings of fire,

Singed by sparks we rage and stomp

among the glowing coals.

Grunting, we pummel the charred wood

sending the showering cinders skyward.

This cannot last.

These days of abandon

that scream against the black pit of forgetting.

We will not remember when we wake to the street sounds

And the abyssal meandering chatter of loose minded drainpipes

That dawn brings dripping and humming, louder and louder

until brutal wordless chant leaps away.

And we are separated into the day.

“Field Concerns for Medical Gladiolas.”

Her voice followed

the  butterflies of her hands

dancing  up the curve of her


and away into the future

“That’s what my teacher called it.”

The distant butterflies transformed

bright leaves drifting back

loosely settling

in her lap.

At the End of a Dream

As it passed over the house

an ailing ice cream truck’s

broken soundtrack

Blared and blurted

a warped jangled tune

changing into the call

of a lonely goose

heading north.

The dream flew with the bird

leaving only a sound

moving into light.

Where Do the Summer People Go?

A pastel pink pump on a porch

where people gather around a heater.

Ed comes up guided by a man who lives in the house.

Big, slow Ed,  black bearded and gentle, easy with a laugh,

slouching from couch to couch

never working hard

or wearing out his welcome.

“Hey Ed! I thought you were dead or somethin’.”

I am genuinely glad to see him looking so much the same

as 20 years ago.

Across the silent street children play

in the dark green shadows of the forest.

Juice of the Weedy Man

I could see death

away up the road

leaping from stalled car

to stalled car

like a tiger,


No way to shout,

to make a connection.

The Weedy Man was coming

with berries and decay.

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