Elsewhere in Dreams

When she was in the garage she tried to kiss me one last time
where I had kissed the time I spent on fixing you goodbye.
And in her tart saliva I could taste your coming bitterness
but I didn’t mind. I’d already left you behind.

The cataclysm came much quicker that I’d ever thought.
A question split the cord, confession twisted in knots.
From your metalic tears I mind the iron for a battleship,
but you didn’t fight. You’d already left me behind.

And in a week on Hilton Head, the water taught me how
salt water can cleanse, or it can break a building down.
In the morning light I eyed the shore to find the ediface,
but I couldn’t find a single spire left behind.

Like newborn day, like epitaph.
Like a dream forgotten, how it passed.
These better angels welcome home,
from empty tombs, oh how they’ve flown.

Still, sometimes I forget the words reversed and upside down.
A child so badly written you can’t help but help it drown.
But from those jumbled letters I’ve assembled something wonderful.
Something all mine that I can’t leave behind.

I’ve seen you almost crying, walking to the car.
I’ve watched you slowly dying while I played guitar.
You asked me if I’d play you that simple song,
but I don’t dare play it, cause you’re the kind of girl
I could fall in love with.

You told me that you loved me; I knew what you meant,
but I can’t help imagining what might have been,
if only I had told you I was on the edge.
But I don’t dare say it, cause you’re the kind of girl
I could fall in love with.

I’d take away your pain if you’d ease my regret,
with some whisky in a bottle and some cigarettes.
We could laugh about nothing. That’s as good as it gets.
But I don’t dare repeat it, cause you’re the kind of girl
I could fall in love with.

I know that this is crazy, but I’ll toe the line,
in order to feel something, and to pass the time.
Keep telling me “never”. I don’t mind.
I just can’t believe it. You’re the kind of girl
I could fall in love with.

If we just sit here
and drink coffee together
it doesn’t matter
what they say.

Let’s spend time talking
about something or nothing.
It doesn’t matter
what we say.

All the sentences I use,
they’re perfect when you’re
smiling at me.

This is your first day.
This is your last day.
Hidden in tear gas,
buried in scattered glass.
Terror is pipe bombs,
nails in the brick wall.
People like strewn dice
over a concrete lawn.

Will you remember all of this,
apalling fall, the tender kiss
of flame and pain and bliss
of being spread over the wall?
The red wall, the red wall, the red wall.

Was it your first breath,
or was it your last breath?
In amneosis, screaming
to let them know
that you have arrive here.
Oh, why are you crying?
You’re supposed to be happy,
you’re supposed to be happy here.

Is this all you remember,
is this all you remember,
is this all you remember,
the red wall?

I will keep you like a hundred dollar bill
for a rainy day when there is nothing to do
but spend it inside in the safety of our living room
we’ve got some living to do.

Let’s not think about the emails to be read
and calls that pile up like bricks. Let’s build a wall
where only we can go and nobody can find us.
Leave the world behind us and while away the afternoon.

Stuck in an airport the size of city,
looking for something to find,
amid all the well-dressed, appropriate people,
absorbed in averting their eyes.

Beautiful birds run away from the buildings
and clamber their way to the sky,
passengers saying their prayers at windows
all hoping their gods won’t reply.

Amen. Another one’s lifted high.
Amen. Another one’s lifted high.

Stuck in a city the size of an airport
watching the place running down.
No one knows what time it is in Toronto,
or where’s the best coffee in town.

Carrion birds lie in wait on the buildings,
their dangerous weight just enough
for mothers to pray Jesus’ grace on their children,
that heaven would take them with love.

Amen. Another one’s lifted up.
Amen. Another one’s lifted up.

There is a heaven we haven’t explored
lying in wait for the taking.
Hidden in phrases, hidden in plain speech,
hidden in rules made for breaking.

There are lines to cross and lines to keep reciting.
Some days the sticks are woven in the spokes.
There are things to keep and things to keep from fighting.
Days to pause and days to go for broke.

Does it sting a little, peeking over to tomorrow?
Are you measuring the means to the end?

When the storms gather around,
like enemies on all sides.
In the shadow of a doubt,
when you’re gone from my sight.

Lord, can you hear my cry?
Am I wasting my time?
Your still, small voice replies,
“Child, you are still mine.”

And I am, I am, I am safe in your hands.
I am, I am, I am safe in your plan.

You have seen the worst in me,
all the other loves that I chase.
Like a prisoner set free
running back to fasten his chains.

Like a moth to a flame
I am burned time after time,
but you love me just the same,
you say, “Child, you are still mine.”

And I am, I am, I am safe in your hands.
I am, I am, I am safe in your plan.

I come running back to you time after time
to the shadow of your wings,
and you say, “Child, you are mine.”

Our narratives aside, the truth is hard to hide.
It always seeks the light, to level out.
The story that I’ve got, the characters and plot,
the mortar and the blocks I’ve leveled out.

It’s complicated in retrospect to see what it’s about.
It’s hard to hate it, the means and ends, to level out.

If I could tweak the gears, an errant engineer,
the troughs would disappear and level out.
But things are meant to pass, in memory and ash,
simplified and crass, leveled out.

It’s annotated, its facts are checked. See what it’s about?
It’s hard to hate it, the means and ends, to level out.

Old song. Don’t ask. I don’t know.

Throw him in the oven. If he lives then we will love him.
And at least he’ll be sure he’s alive.
If he dies we will dissect him, from the sternum to the rectum
so we can finally understand what’s inside.

It’s a good plan. It’s a good, use the good plan. Use the good plan.

Toss him in the oil, and we’ll watch to see him boil.
if he doesn’t, we’ll let up a cheer.
If he does you get the batter, roll him up and mind the splatter,
while I crack open a couple of beers.

It’s a good plan. It’s a good, use the good plan. Use the good plan.