As the moon begins
it’s slow departure
we step carefully out
into the receiving night.
The neighbor’s black cat
looks up at the sky
warily, steps around
the ladder leaning
against the house, and sits
and contemplates the number
thirteen, though it holds
no special place
in the feline world, it
just seems the thing to do.
In the deepest, darkest portion of night
we are taught that dreams reside, that they
are not real, figments, fragments of imagination,
woven into an evanescent tapestry
that disappears upon waking, leaving only
a faint shadow to indicate its once presence.
Many like to believe this, for it
relieves them of ownership of dark thoughts
that night can unleash, like dogs of war.
To the dreamer, the dream is no less real
than the experience when awake, more real
on some occasions, so ask yourself
what if the dream is reality and
your waking existence is the fiction
and what is the difference which is correct
or if neither is, and dreams are
all the substance of our universe.
She wants to ask me
how many lawyers
can dance on the head
of a pin, but she knows
that at their hourly rates,
no one will pause
to count them.
that, and the fact
that lawyers are used
to calling the tune,
and not dancing to it.
That, she says,
and lawyers are never
mistaken for angels.
The morphology of dreams
is partially reliant
on the whims of a single
god, and Morpheus
is, to say the least,
a truly fickle bastard
who dangles before us
joy and nightmare
each always just
out of reach, but never
out of sight or hearing.
So we are left
to grasp like marionettes
operated by an unseen hand.
His brother said that if you left
the windows open at night, the ghosts
would come in and might steal your soul.
He didn’t care, he wanted to hear
the song the stars sang every night,
to see them come down and move
in pairs across the mesa, for stars,
he knew turned orange when they
left their celestial perch, and would
certainly keep the ghosts away,
for ghosts were like rabbits and hid
when the stars came near, and
once in a while, if a ghost moved
too slowly he would hear its cry
as it was captured by a star.
And, he was certain, ghosts
preferred doors, and they kept theirs
tightly locked, for you never knew
what you’d find out on the mesa.
Time slows inexorably
with the approach
of sleep, the other world
prepared for arrival
as the awakened world
Some say it is all
dreams, but they
have their own reality
until they, too,
retreat in the face
of the great rising Bird
the morning sun.
Each night I stare up at the sky, scanning
for the one star that is there solely
to answer whatever entreaties I choose to make.
It is said that we each have a lucky star,
but perhaps, given the ever-expanding population
of the world, mine is just too dim to see
from the city in which I live, or perhaps,
I simply haven’t found it, and addressing
someone else’s star brings you nothing,
not even thanks from the lucky soul
who won the big lottery last week
all at my urging, I mean how could I know
it was their star I addressed with my request,
it isn’t like they wear name tags after all.
Still, I don’t give up trying, though
I often swear that Orion and Cassiopeia
spend a portion of every evening together
just laughing their celestial asses off at me.