Words by Joe

A dream
of silent life
is what I wanted.
But in my head
an endless music plays
that bleeds into the fabric
of my dreams
constantly,
and last night an angry rhythm
of random images
pounded themselves out while I slept –
morning sex,
a hot shell in cool young light,
covers up over our heads
and my breath on your neck;
my house,
coopted by a group of hardened journalists,
at whose intrusion I played heavy metal to
drive them away;
pasta in a bowl three feet deep
that I could not eat
and damn near fell into;
and a damp and foggy park in the early hours of day
with a miniature playground,
a kid on a bike pedaling over the wet grass,
abandoned cars with frosted windows
sitting in a parking lot on the far side
and a gathering of Armenian boys
in the back,
a low slung fence
and a turnstyle gate
made of wood…
…perhaps as soon as I
scrape these from my subconscious
I can figure out how
to make the real world disappear,
as well.