meh

 

Another poem. Not my favorite, but it has its merits. This is what happens when dreams, the oily runoff of a mind processing a day’s worth of overloads, follow one into the next day, the next bombardment of information, images, memories, data. There is no junk. Junk is just what we haven’t figured out how to put to a purpose yet.

 

I Keep My Visions to Myself

dreamt last night

he was a young Bob Dylan

 

woke up with a broken heart

his dead lips softer than I remembered

my love more real

though it turned out just the same

 

if I believed he’d haunt me

if his spirit wouldn’t leave me alone

this is exactly how he’d do it

 

this is all I know for sure

 

xo