Bored

Staring into a flickering candle

In and out of consciousness

I didn't notice that it went out

Or that Colonel Custer died

With his Seventh Cavalry

Too many times have I fallen asleep

And dreamt from the prompt of a first sentence

Tying words together; lost cause to cost lost to...

Jackson, Polk and Testa sipping tea

Fingers curled, talking of platypus.

Oh, did the candle go out?

I must get up, go around, do something!

My house is old, and I've lived there all my life.

I've done everything there is to do

Except climb through the ventilation

Oh wait, nevermind.

Something I haven't done, at least for a while

And I took off the turquoise bike.

(I'm liking the shadow under my hammies)

So off I go, riding with that sense

of pride, being able to do tricks:

Ride English style, one leg resting

Faster than the rush hour cars

Stand on the pedals

Forget the bike and the bumps of the old road

And pretend to fly! 

The closest I might ever get.

But going on a road always has a danger;

There lay a body in the road.

The wing flapped once then stopped, stuck ridged in the air

Like a very bad dream and a sickening stomach.

I stopped the bike, throwing my leg over while it still rolled

A smooth landing, unlike the bird.

I kicked out the pedal stand

Slow only because I thought it dead

Thoughts blooming in my head

(There are these indiscreet things that / will always bring you back to a child / ish way of thinking, of finding / those simplicit reactions, like chemicals / this was one of those)

As I came closer, appearing deformed in his black eye

I took off my flannel on that unusually temperate day

Wrapped him up and balanced his limp neck in hands

He blinked! He blinked! Oh thank you G- oh but wait

He's going to die.

Oh, but it's only cacti

I took it out on the side of the road

And he didn't even stir, only blinked

He flew out, free from the desert's claws

Only to crash on the other side of the road on the front of his neck

sitting, as if broken

I crossed and picked him up in my jacket

He looked at me with his infected eye

Old lady voice from an SUV: don't leave your bike in the road, someone will run over it, hun.

He gazed at her with his little black eye.

I gazed at her with my little black eye.

I let the dove fly out of my hands and nodded.

As soon as she drove away, the bird crashed again

his neck the landing pad

but at least he was safe under a dwarf tree.

I took my bike and continued.

I forgot the bird after turning twice into the honeycomb streets.

I flew down a steep hill, raised high above the bike.

I was almost flying, above the trees and through hotels

but never very high.

Oh, did the candle go out?

I read a poem just now

That made me cry with the last couplet.

I love you Mitchell Cravens.

I had a very bad dream last night. I didn't like it at all. I hadn't remembered it when I woke up, because I think I had dreamt early on in sleep, and then dreamt of other things until I woke up. I was in the shower and remembered a scene from yesterday, just a little glimpse of something insignificant but then it reminded me of that dream. It was like something got caught in my stomach. I almost started to cry when I was putting on my make up.

When it doesn't scare me anymore, I'll tell you what it was.

Sonnet

Humid the dew of day's new dawn
And gone and gone the august wind goes
North through niches of mountains' brawn
Comes no more frost from cold windows

A business gone, for none need scarves
Nor cars, but bars still 'ttract said men;
the kerf cut clean as Company carves
While churches sweep in the rest again

Though classic splay of winter-harsh nights
No longer looms for on us to prey
There's still the cry, the croon of blights
Even in a new spring day.

The question now that stands astute:
will spring coax out valued trees to fruit?

you fly so freely
held by the wind with no destination
in mind
spread high over the ground
with the sun on your shoulders
and a song you still don't know quite how to sing.

am I your cage?
did I see
your shadow pass over me
and snatch you up in a flurry of love
like a little boy who might squeeze his pet
too tightly?

or am I something
more to you
than what this inclination tells me
am I just a whisperer
who encourages you to fly
do I let you come to my sill
and practice your song?

I have dreams of flying
over the trees and through hotels
but I never get very high
perhaps the more you sing
and find your euphoric song
I may learn to fly from you and dream
of the sky.