Drive home

The snow came down, balled into little fists
so many frozen comets railing against the ground
(thrown down from the heavens).
It piled up like rock salt in the streets;
our tires made thin black stripes.
The sky was one heavy sheet,
one homogeneous layer of graphite overhead.
But when the lightning struck
it changed,
inexplicably,
it melted lavender in all directions,
purple-blue luminescence.
We braked with painstaking caution,
slipping sideways over the coated roads--
rogue wanderers taking to a lake of ice.
We lurched into the curb at home,
opened up to the silent, sleepy neighborhood--
safe now from the quiet fury of December.

dream early morning december 12, 2007

I dreamt last night that Jarom killed Nemo. He was up with him at four in the morning, in the bathtub. I let Jarom have Nemo in the water with him. I left, went back to sleep or something, and when I came back there was this strange-shaped orange colored thing in the water. Jarom had cranked Nemo through a plastic playdoh tool. The orange blob was still quivering, like Nemo was barely alive in there.

I smacked Jarom's head against the wall. Just hard enough so that he would know better. I did it again and again. I was a child abuser in my dream.

I took Nemo outside to bury him. As I was in the process of preparing to bury him, a fish casket salesman came by. He was dressed like an undertaker. Great timing.

Seeing sentences

I see a big beautiful world.
I see people.

I see pain, heartache, hate and sorrow.
I see religion and belief, pacifists and zealots.
I see clouds moving like ocean waves over cold little desolate valleys.
I see daily routines.
I see aimless wandering.
I see comfort, but also complacence.
I see compassion and hope, people dreaming without regard for practicality or limit.
I see a little piece of me in everyone.
I see God in everything.
I see love,

it's as lucid
as a white full moon coming up
out of the black sea.

The view

It's interesting that I get to sit here in an office building
so early in the morning
and stare up at a massive snowcovered mountain.
This mountain is nearly 12,000 feet tall;
I can see its peak through my little window.
It's brilliant and white and has
sloping jagged shadows strewn across it.
The streets next to me are busy, swarmed with cars.
The houses on the hill have frozen snow in the
nooks and crevices of their rooftops.

My heart sometimes feels swollen and bruised and it aches.
It makes me think of slapmarks,
or pinkeye,
or Indian burns--
something that leaves red where it shouldn't be.

That's how my heart feels sometimes.