Dreamworks

Every time the ladder looks in at itself,
she looks in at herself. Everything is
proof of itself.
And in so imagineering oneself, they
(like the moon-body,) scatter
dust upon orchards and shave
as if rain were no detriment.

Yes, I've seen clouded villages.
Rainy tunnels and cottages left empty.
But where will it leads us? Where is
the grave at the end of the fountain?

We cannot say this anymore. It just isn't
true. We believe that the truth
is its own road. It follows its
own heart.

And if I were a vitamin, I would
be vital, I would orchestrate
every bodily function seemlessly [sic]
Mozart concerto orgasms would flow
from my bereft spirit like mosquitoes
invisibly (but truly) spreading disease.

As if there weren't part to this complex
machinery that we won't understand.

As if mud was brown and the sky was blue
and my paper is due Thursday. I read the
lemons like their color and the television
rainbows are all alphabet soup to me. Just do it.

& so on. The modern crisis--impoverished
gentility--this so quiet killing notion is a
false proverb: the ocean does not awake,
has not arisen,
has power we cannot imagine.

With our poles and electric candles
we keep trying to climb higher
(hipper we graduate)
the silk ladders
toward steel, impartial dreams.

I know nothing of the blanket but
the warmth of dreams.

We see nothing but the gleam of sparks
but not the heat released.

There are only two people in the world
that matter in this situation: the man-
grove in her forest skelter
and the other man, the mangler,
holding a leash in one hand and
a cocktail in the other. And yes,
it will be poisoned, unless we act,
unless we prevent.