Dream Intrusion

There was a quiet something, maybe it was,
sometimes called a dream, last night that of a
slow processional lulled beside the entire ocean,

a continual apparition of thousands of multitudes
with round faces and endless sun rays of horizons,
floating unharried amidst the ubiquitous shoreline,

and myself when getting up in the morning,
with bare feet on a floor that feels like a basement,

prefers the tangible weight with its own material
as a dream also but with dimensions of awareness:

the hefted descriptions of a blue jay ascending
into its own small, black opening in the sky
becomes an actual wing of flight;

the constant fictive shapes of the dunes and hills
with stories told through ground rivulets is
an acquiescence without negation;

colors hued in the chiaroscuro of emotions
contain the mixed blends of experience,
inclusive of that light’s spatial genesis;

as a guiding vision they weren’t going anywhere
and circumstances are largely the directions
more true than the follies of distinction;

besides that, the sleeping dream is an inconscient
display of images made from the oblong and
unformed lapses of psychic gewgaw.

Enough of the explanations. Awake in reality is perfectly
fine and capable of adorning concrete with landscapes,
we’ve done it for years, and should be reason enough
to enjoy dressing, drinking down a cup of coffee,

and with a half-an-eye on what they call the hour-to-hour
face forward and go through the front door, home in tote.

There beside the chains of them,
on the way to work, you can turn and say,
‘hey how do you like that here and there’
in a pay filled day with the rote tasks
where small complaints of a luck filled survival

become the optic sensations of electrical endings and
the dream life fulfilled is when sitting on your sofa

in the evening within waves of windows and spheres
with the rustling birds and bugs chirping in the hedge,
where you can swing into last night’s neutered crystal

vision on a tire swing, tied to an ancient tree, barbaric as Tarzan,
and grab the most naked and blasphemous figment of them all.

1 comment:

Lori Witzel said...

If you're comfortable with it, I would love to use the following lines from your poem "Dream Intrusion" as a little bit to go with a photo I've caught while on a recent business trip -- of a utility sign that says "Buried Power" among some St. Augustine grass.


"...Enough of the explanations. Awake in reality is perfectly / fine and capable of adorning concrete with landscapes..."


How did I find you? A long and winding Google search that began with the keywords Pinsky, power, poetry.

You can either email me at lwitzel {at} austin {dot} rr {dot} com, or leave a comment on my blog, chatoyance.

Sure hope you'll say "yes" -- I'd like others to read what you're writing.