Blue Sky

At the break of a new dawn, the silent daybreak louder than a toscin, I see through the lens of a simple perception, through the opaque morning dark, with a sunlit eye, and I bristle with trepidation, blowing days into fragments. Looking for one soft chip in solid matter, something to lean on. I fall and unearth a stream of windmills looming in a tulip garden of Polaroids, and think about all the buildings that were watching me, and how I thought the world would end before I could elude the corpse of the past, the Capernaum on the pilgrimage, the shadow following me. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but when I wash it out a cascade of tears pour from the relief, and how I managed to find my way out from that queer street into the impossible distance. Writing lines. Only here for a good time. I pursue the sunlight on rivers into fields of dry timber grass, and I'm getting good at telling the sheen of age on the old woodwork of the wold. The seagull's caw leads me to gemstones, in cities where broken machines go phut, in my wild dreams of California.

By my mind's seashore, piecing together the night before. In a haze, in a daze. Today is the selfsame. Delicate, glazed earthenware. Tangled in pond weed, sucked through the pore. Sun pirouettes, into the atmosphere. Mercurial year after year. I stayed quiet and never got to tell you how I felt. Too ashamed, so I kept my feelings withheld, kept my feelings to myself. Hoping you would understand if I ever got the chance, the moment to show you who I am, I can feel the heat from my palms. I am a wheel, but I won't move. I have no need for shoes. I will cut through you like a billhook, and fill you with passionflowers. I will take the eyewash and comb the horse's forelock, as if nothing ever mattered.

Memories come back to me as a blue sky. A blue sky in 1975 over the jardinière, over the vines of the banana trees, over the utopia I've created. They come through the television screen, even tangerine, when I was trying to make ends meet. I buried them in extensive graves, drank bottles of Pepsi, had hopes that tomorrow won't be Procrustean. Silence springs. Remembrance for the thousandth time. Plasma shining in Palm Springs. Mornings for the Tropic of Cancer. I want the blue sky to last forever.