Poem - on the second floor of a rambling victorian house - this means we are family

i had a dream i was sleeping
on the second floor of a rambling victorian house
that was painted white inside with brown carpet

it was gracefully falling apart
due to age and use
the rooms were bright and bare
with the expected scrollwork and wood details
smothered under many layers of paint as to hint
on how crisp the lines of sleeping shells and pearls
and other rambunctious seagifts clustered around ceiling
say where a gas jet chandelier used to hang
yellow gaslight through frosted cups long gone

the dream beds were made of bread
that had just been baked so i poked a hole
in the center of the mattress to get comfortable
and I lay down under a comforter

I looked at the second floor of the house
which creaked from time to time
as the creatures that lived there moved about
half book and half salmon emanations
who had their own culture
and shiny supple sayings

as I thought this one came upstairs and saw me
did a double-take asked who i was
i said we were in a dream and i was part of it
so the creature exclaimed good, as odd as that is
this means we are family


*

Poem - i'm only angry if i think i'm someone

i'm only angry if i think i'm someone
who had something to be angry about
and it was happening for real
in a dream
and i was the center of attention in the dream
and whatever happened was important
like a prize of a hundred singing harmonica fish


*

for Eeek

Poem - i can sometimes watch people

i can sometimes watch people
moving to and fro
over the scenery like patterns
colorful and gliding along
charming
or like leaves suspended in water
or even fish in a tank
or just quirky emanations
like sparks from a stone
or another mythic caesura


*

for Eeek

Poem - everything is full

everything is full
with no room
or just a bit of room
for anything new

but for a few things
please no more
of a day that is sad
or ideas of nobody

we don't need
space for end of
or gonna or was
never or could


[

Poem - they carved out / this place that we fly in and out of

the water mirrored the sky
indirectly it influenced every mood

when i cross the bridge
i look for the stumps of the landing

it is long gone
but it is where orange county began

back bay
keeps telling me the story

of spanish pirates
and the schooners of lumber

missionaries
and farmers and banditos

the dying
cattle and zealots

they carved out
this place that we fly in and out of


**

Back Bay
Just Before Summer
Orange County CA

Poem - you get close / like a light (it plays / on my mind)

you get close
like a light

then recede
without touching anything

just like a
lost boat or plane

that decides
not to make landing

enveloped
in darkness and doubt

choosing
nothing over certainty


*

it plays
on my mind


***

6.8.15
HB