Digging through some old files, I found a poem that I several years ago. It remains one of the few poems that I had a genuinely fun time writing and though I think it needs heavy revisions, I present it here in it’s original form. Because, honestly, having fun while writing is just as important and writing something “good.”
In my dream Conor Oberst invites me to Cassadega.
But, of course, cities
in dreams are never just one place.
Dream Cassadega is almost my own
city, the one I lost slowly in treads
of shoes and the ice left at
the bottom of Italian sodas and
the faces of people I couldn’t see. Now
State Street suddenly
leads into the ocean and the ocean
is filled with glass sailboats
breaking on the waves.
At my favorite café, the stereo plays
TV on the Radio through tin
can speakers and jelly glasses pressed
to walls. I order a cup
of Iron Silk Puerh which comes
in the Holy Grail I never thought
I would attain. It stains
my hands a glorious white that stuns
the wolf I used to fear who
shows up wearing a suit of night
sky materials and nods to me.
Meric Long is at a corner table
telling stories to everything
that has ever gone extinct.
He motions me
to sit but I don’t believe I’m gone
enough quite yet. So instead a
dead woman reads my future
backwards starting with my past.
She says I’ve only lost just
A Bird flies around the ceiling,
whistling about the way the sky
looked last night. I think I
need a net. The sky last night
bled. The sky last night tasted
sickly sweet. The sky last night felt
like skin burnt with fever. The
sky last night looked like
the face of everyone I’ve loved.
Outside it starts to rain. Susheela
tells me it tastes of salt.
I think the ocean
became the sky. I think I
missed the train I meant to catch
before the world ends and now
I might just drown.
There’s a Corvair parked on
the street outside, the color of bone.
I think if I touched it I could
feel every road it has ever
known. Jim White says don’t,
it’s almost not here
anymore. That’s almost the way
someone I loved once described me.
The street outside disintegrates.
It’s impolite to say, though. And so,
as the dust creeps under the door,
and the wolf begins to howl,
and all the dead shift
ever so slightly beneath our feet,
and the sky hollows out a space
for me, all Conor says is: Don’t worry—
—It’s the first day of my life
until my eyes open
to the empty apartment
and the walls that I always
wanted to paint are still
white, and everything
is a buzz of silence.
So I hit
Repeat until there’s nothing else.