an image diary

"And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be? ... You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream! If that there King was to wake you'd go out -- bang! -- just like a candle!"

"Hush! You'll be waking him, I'm afraid, if you make so much noise."

"Well it's no use your talking about waking him when you're only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you're not real."

Thursday, September 16, 2004

Out, out,

I'd driven myself a long way. I'd thrown
down my garments, walked the brick factory mentioning
to myself the gutter-run stink and late rot, a soft
black mosaic I notice: he is here somewhere. The station
four-way is clogged with cars, I hear the train
a ways off, and the auto-repair shop on the street of old
houses would get up, lying, if I called for help. Help. Here
without others counting the one mossed concrete
stoop and a bike fender spoking queen anne's lace, it
wants. I do. He bodies these ones and I consider
going: the tin-foiled windows at the corner house, their life
stare, the padlocked tackle-and-bait panicking black
and orange: open: open: go: these: into the open
fields of corn, soy, the tracks running through, away, and
the unsigned crosses numbered n 300, n 150, a road at at time, a line,
the sky also a line--is it really impossible?--that, pulled to
the shoulder feeling not this but this
shoulder and sea, he drives by, slows, backs me not
a foot, his elephant black truck backing, slowing, lone?
I am alone too, he steps down. Thought you were broken
down he says. In a corn field, yup, just changing
the tape I say. He lowers his arms--okay now?--moves
towards me, big in his body, full of blood. Lowers
his head. Nods. I don't know I've been looking
for him. He folds his hands at his face. See him
again, m'dear? Oh it's years till I'd betray myself, me,
by myself and him long gone. Only that. only that.

"and what is the use of a book...without pictures or conversations?"

[contact me:]

what o'clock it is


live flowers