Focus, dream speaker.
forest green cries and snowman tears
paint the ground light—
a white, holy glow spewing out from a
frigid, unforgiving sea.
“Halfway though the dark,”
they once said. Fickle spirit,
ease your eagle heart.
Mighty wings hovering to an earthy sanctuary,
a meticulous eye over the monochrome land.
Lay in workers’ oil-stained hands,
slip into visions of Route 66,
sun strapped to the small of your back,
red, rust debris,
sweeping,
swirling,
lunging matter forward with golden-rush eyes,
and chew thoroughly.
Revel softly in summer’s honey-dipped solace,
away from 40 canary daybreaks and 40 rattlesnake nights,
40 lonely,
coyote-riddled nights.
Sketch a cartographer’s wet dream to Joan’s favored abode.
Salvation! Engulfed in crimson and wild, stark passion!
Torn without recollection,
yellow-faced of sick, egotistical solitude,
leave time’s heavy hold deer-stricken:
fresh—
able—
startled—
shaken on breathing mossy terrain.
Carry on with only a caution against gray, frozen Tuesdays,
a loss of heightened awe found in cerebral universes of firework sunsets,
pushed blindly,
deep in Gaia’s damaged skin,
trapped in our mind’s vast, wooden landscape.