this feeling is my twin brother
it follows me everywhere, it wears the same clothes
and cuts its nails the same way
but it doesn’t like the oranges
i like oranges.
i peel them roughly and don’t mind getting my hands dirty
to experience a brief moment of not thinking about
that phrase is just like a ghost phone ringing at your neighbor’s
every time you hear it thinking it’s yours
but it isn’t, brenda
symptoms of lovesick include (but aren’t limited to) cold shivers
in waves, when you look out the window
and then goosebumps on your feet
Also looking for the best X-rays of dreams in all formats, color and black-and-white. Successfully photographed memories, to be considered for airing on TV networks, paid extra. (Milorad Pavic, Landscape painted with tea)
no one said anything, it was just a step dance underground; and as we flew towards the day, our shadows were fading.
there was coffee all over the floor, broken glass, broken china and I was all scratched.
Some fingers were pointing at my dirty-smelly-coffee stained-dress and I knew that there was dust all over me and I had a red face.
Grab it with your hands said the sand therapist
then write your poems with your toes at the sea side and hope for the best. You have yet to finish all those books you started to read years ago and give those voices to the characters you’ve been thinking about in your dreams
I wish I could use my camera when dreaming, I’m sure I would remember everything easier.
My grandma used to say it’s forbidden to sew on a Sunday. She didn’t know exactly what would happen if, but she always reminded me of her nightmare
my eyes and mouth were stitched, there was an old lady with a giant needle and red thread sewing my mouth and eyes she was 100 years old
so I don’t sew on Sundays, just in case the old lady would visit my dreams.
The loose ends
once upon a time in an air plane I read this picture in a book:
strings of yarn
a few hundred strings stretching across the water
passengers leaving for the inside world
they held balls of yarn
the others on the pier held the loose ends, a few hundred strings
every ten seconds slowly flying
as I was shouting farewells waiving furiously
the balls of yarn began to spin – I began to spin
my fingers were part of her dreams now
my footsteps were part of his imaginary home now
my hair and eyes were part of their hopes
I was gone.
smells like newspapers on the tube like every morning
you were wearing a blue shirt when you first wanted to hear my poems