Table of |
sharing a bed
you're from the future, so you might not remember
the ads running today about how your bed
doubles in weight over 10 years
from the skin you shed.
does this nocturnal math mean that the person
who will be laying in my bed 10 years from now -
perhaps around your time -
will be someone entirely different than me?
will that still be my wife he is laying next to?
or will that be someone entirely different, too?
will those people buy a new bed, as the ad recommends
and drag what's left of my wife and I down to the street
so that some desperate person
will come along and take us home with them,
only to find their selves mingled with us
in our most intimate histories?
I've been meaning to tell you
about the dream I had
where I came upon you
in a cave
by the sea.
You seemed to hiss, Whassup?
But I was fixed in place, like stone
when I saw the hoses coming out of your head
They were, without a doubt
lengths of garden hose
raggedly cut off at random forearm lengths
writhing and twisting
in the wind
well, I would have said the wind
if there had been wind.
You looked like a high school mythology project
dreamed up on a Sunday night before it was due.
We walked out among the rocks,
rocks that looked strangely like heroes,
then sat together looking east
as rosy-fingered dawn unfurled...
her rosy fingers.
we sat without judgment,
but also without understanding.
I know, I know,
what were you doing in a cave
by the sea?
hurdy gurdy time travel
the hurdy gurdy seems like an instrument
from some steam punk future
rather than the actual horse hair shirt past
I imagine Leonardo contemplating
the crank and cogs -
wheels turning within wheels
if only he had electricity
he would have put pick ups
by the keys and under the drone strings
I could see him, dressed in purple
jamming till dawn in slippers
dancing between the tables
only pausing to crank up another tune
while his automatic feast
prepared dinner for forty.
tonight is a walk into a framed painting
of a man walking in a snow storm.
he and I see the street lamp
and think of a story about a light house
and wonder if the keeper has enough oil
to last through the night.
we, and the keeper,
look out through the long panes
the lamp light thickened with flakes reflecting back
for a moment and then disappearing
forever in the blackness.
there is whale oil
and rum and coffee
so that the coffee and rum
and whale oil
can continue to flow
across the ocean which we know is there
but take on faith at this moment.
the walking man and I
pass through the keeper's light
and as the story fades
the walking man reaches for a door to a diner
and goes inside,
knocking his boots against the frame.
As the door closes behind him
I see the special is porkchops
my companions gone,
I listen to the snow fall.