The Mycelium of Dawn

Arising from nothing
With a sour taste in my mouth
And pale squares of light on the wall
The clock in the kitchen ticking
Snoring from the couch
And a whisker in the cakey powder of pancake mix.

Snatches of dreams flit back like birds.

Time’s wan ghosts: numbers of the digital clock
The heater crinkling alive
Flood of lamplight
A yard glowing in the wooded dark.

Senses sharpened: the brain of night slowly flickering out,

Glass rose, glass vase.

Strange world of dreams, appear!

Brakelights streak through the dark.

Linear time: record viewing party: that is assuming: bursts of unfocused thought.

His burly arms are crossed in sleep
A morning walk to awaken the senses
Yogurt finished: candy-sweet, gunk.

A dream returns: a classroom dispute, watching as spikes of red and black water ooze out the base of a windmill:

“I object. I would sooner call this effluvia than runoff. The latter implies natural means working towards natural ends. But here we see the water is sliced, polluted, and discarded.”

Silent affirmation of point.

Morning glowing planet: Venus?
The glitter of frost on the grass
Light pouring out a house
Rumble of train
A spotlight on a tree

The cold air prancing
Two middens of dirt stacked in a backyard
She jogs the garbage pail to the road, jogs back through the cold swinging her hands Two birds wing through the gradually glowing sky
A bus glides to the end of the road, stopping, slowly turning right.

The Ammonite

Crushed by a drop of success
Everything is going fine
I am happy in excess
I do mine

Is this how advance feels
Happiness for oneself alone
Shared only to give the appearance of sharing
Still trapped and dark

Each alone to do their work
For the betterment of the world
And nothing turning out how it ought to
My mistakes are most me, my successes dust

Look at this and cry
You are floundering once more
The base has gone out beneath you,
You’re spiraling

Nothing complete, stuck inside
No time for a wife
No time for friends
Waste of youth

Expressing yourself
Scribbling clever bullshit
Each and every
Each and every day

Listen to the wind through the trees outside
Don’t you think this is a ruined world
It doesn’t snow
No one says anything

And I keep my mouth shut
To work on my career
Sand in the desert
I am a ruin of a world

Nothing will change it
And nothing is good
It is the backdrop as they are fond of saying
And I guess I really am here alone

Cheers I’ll never see you
Build
Die
Let it all go again

All this time trying to say we live in a world
Take yourself as a model
But you are hard on yourself
And that’s unreliable

Joyce

The eyes blue and upthrust into the glare of the camera and the lips joined in a simper. The butterfly of his tie perched below the collars, fluttering towards the part in his hair. The dark jacket flowing into the dark trousers, illumined on each upper leg; and the hands aglow: the right curled on his knee and the fingers of the left clenching his cap, the bill to the ground, in between his spread legs and the creases of shine on each leather shoe. To return to the eyes, pressed shining, glassy and gay with threads of joy and determination entwined.