Here's a new poem (but super cool Patreon folk got to see it first - you should totally be one of them)
ONEIRONAUT
You. You till
That fertile lie:
What you, sensate,
Clarify as your self-sure
Surroundings,
Is binding. True.
Persistent.
There are ghosts
Suffering
Between the minute
Atoms
Of your unswept floor.
The screen
To which you fixate
In hazy surrender
Is not static;
Rather, its canvas
Tears draft upon draft
In rapid succession
Yet the eye
Betrays witness.
The night is a malleable clay.
The day, likewise.
I have seen
Plastic drinking straws
Pierce the hide
Of a brutish white birch tree.
I have crept, silent and
custodial, into my mother's dreams.
I straighten the dream-table.
I discard the dream-waste.
I launder the
dream-garments. Hang them to dry on the
dream-patio.
And
In my own
Frequent confrontations
With the wizened
Night-Incubus,
I act as script supervisor.
Surely,
I challenge,
you've realized
This character,
My father,
Has expired.
My skin
is not wire-shackled;
An airplane
Cannot guest
A serpent,
Three-headed, rapt
With hunger.
I rub my hands together.
Cradle the dream-beasts.
Mash their form into
A microphone
Or a talk show
Or a bookstore
Or a soundstage
Or a theatre.
I do not accept their false
face.
Rather,
I craft another,
Shadow following shadow.
