Elsewhere in Dreams

Oy, I just got ripped a new one by a customer. Not fun. Especially since it’s not something I was involved in, so I was just kind of staring like a deer in headlights. Not only that, there was nothing I could do to help him either. SWEAR WORDS.

Last night under a cliche canopy of stars
you said we could retrace those tired figures
with our fingers, and we did.
When we finished,
I asked if you could tell my future
in these new configurations.
You laughed, and pointed,
and there we were,
together in the sky.

Christian music sucks. Most of it anyways. It sucks in all the ways that lowest-common-denominator pop music (and I mean “pop” here in the broadest sense) sucks, but it also sucks in that it applies all that suckiness and sends it right on up to God.

You would thing people supposedly in tune with the higher power that created the universe would have a better idea about what true art is, wouldn’t you. Nature, for instance, is true art, even if God only defined the patterns underlying it.

For crying out loud, the Catholic church has had a better grasp on what is and what is not good art for the past 500 or so years. If you people with your guitars and ridiculously simple and flat out wrong lyrics can’t get it together long enough to pump out just one, one interesting song, why should I listen?

Ah, I am once again full of coffee and laughter. In the words of pop culture: bling bling booty booty!

Let me carry you like a bushel of apples.
My back hasn’t broken yet and you are not so heavy.
Let me lead you with breadcrumbs.
There’s a house in the forest with your name on it.
Let me give you a brain, a heart,
and the courage to use them both before you die.
Let me knit you at the seams.
I will love you until once again you need repair.

Let me carry you like I’d carry an egg.
Your shell hasn’t broken yet, but I am making an omelette.

There’re only so many ways
to tame an animal or fix a house,
and only so many metaphors
I can grow as descriptors.

Maybe I am water
to your growth, a spike
of stalkless flowers
slowly hardening.

Maybe I am a staff
for your long journey.
Or maybe
you are mine.

My heartrate spikes whenever
I hear you say my name,
when accidental compliments
smile slyly in the morning.
I have never told you how I was turning into ice
because I knew how you are never safe with ice.
My heatrate spikes whenever
I feel your breath on my neck:
I am steam reaching
to fill you like a canopy.

I would like nothing more than to
speak masculine words around you
and hear your feminine replies
like chains vs. hacksaw.

Tonight I imagine crawling into your
arms like a hybernating animal:
you could save me from my winter:
I could save you from yours.

I would like to be your saviour
and as you pound the spikes
into my wrists, watch your tears
on my forehead turn to steam.

I feel like a small child again: I’m playing Eye Spy. Gosh, Beav, this is fun!

Oh Elyssa. What won’t you injure?