Dreams Are Straight Lines.

My life is a straight line.
My life has changed.
From one day to the next.
Nothing is broken.
Nothing is faded.
We care about what is between trees.
We care about what is between water.
Water is faded from the mist.
We are mad hatters.
The mad hatters are this:
Turning like spinning wheels,
Turning like things are broken,
The hand is eschewed on broken
Lines.

We dream dreams.
We speak dreams when nothing
Is a dream.
We are not a dream that is not
Circumvented.
We are awake and nothing
Is sleeping.
Pour the water into the well.
Pour the water into the gravel.
We let men wear top hats.
We sing songs to sad rainforests.

I stick up for stick people.
I draw them on desks in classrooms.
People force us to speak to classrooms.
Men are drawing lines
On gravel roads.

My life is a straight line.
Don’t stick up for me.
Don’t draw stick people.
What it’s gotta be,
Is what we see after we see.

We dream dreams.
We walk on straight lines.
We are broken when things are mended.
We catapult into the air and onto
Dead grass.
The grass is dead at my feet.
The shoes are worn and faded.

I wake up tomorrow, and talk about the
Negative.

The History of Histograms.

The information is a body of stalwart images.
Old crones beat on banjos and false stories flit in
The news.

Tigers crowd in jungle alleys, weaving
Their tails, darkness flocks the moon. My eyes are
Full of pollen. My lips are rosy red and lock in struggle

Between manbear and bargirl. My mother tells me
Histograms are the finest art; she is polite to the man in
The green truck. He wanders by, fresh as daisies.

His mood changes from sea to sky. The Indians melt in
The snow. Tales of lost laundry and broken dreams
In the sky.

A blue-tailed crane is in flight.

Shadows
Float the moon.

The wind whispers sad, lonely things.
The crying of ghosts meets the whisper of words
And images fade in my memories.