In the white place,
I swept up my own bones
and sang what I recalled
from the womb.

It wasn’t technicolor
and it was’t syncopated,
but it was a fine respite.

It was while waiting
for the other shoe
to drop
we decided to drape ourselves
in kale
before it was too late
for any neo-nostalgic bandwagon

Tell me you don’t try
to hold sunbeams
when nobody’s looking

The only filter
seems to be one of memory,
where we pretend
not to be affected
when the metal song
we lost our virginity to
starts playing,
connecting awkward pauses
to garnish on a plate
all alone for a busboy to view

An epic battle took place
sometime between 1 and 3 am
this morning
in my head
and I can’t remember much of it
but I awoke with
a start and a pounding heart.
Breathless and rested
all at once.

That flash of insight
you are gifted
when relaxed
and a modicum of tension holds
at least one part of the body-
that’s the moment
when all meaning becomes clear
and nonsense is everything.
Skies were open,
the path gilded.
My song was quiet
but strong and carried far.
The only chaser
was a crooked past
and as I held still,
a storm of sun and music raged.
I have no idea what this means
to a dreamologist
and I don’t think it much matters.
I got a push
to get through Monday
and I’m rolling.

It’s not a slowing down
to meet a still, natural state
but a non-hurried
inhalation
of cavorting blades of grass,
the swivel of sun
amid dipping clouds,
tapping of toes
to a faraway song
and a glint of years
running through my hair
that keeps me aground
yet soaring with renewed
spring in my fingers.