Hey great prognosticator of dreams
show us the wreckage where hearts are heaped
in rusty piles beneath a mid-day sun,
flies buzzing around the wrecked fenders of our faces
and the broken headlights of soul-burned eyes.
Show us the unending minute
of a lifetime's loss
preserved here in the fitful far flung slumber
that resembles wakefulness
the way garbage looks like
the piles of memory and pain that gather
like junk in the heart's long, slow stench,
mere windless rot in dreamtime
with the sun still shining.
-5/9/2012
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