in a huge gilded frame
so big some of it is in the next room
(and no one thinks this odd ... we're dreaming again)
the boulevard of broken dreams is seedy -
there's bugs and perfect dead birds
everywhere      there's a gold ring
gangrene     there are those you love -
you love many - bloodied
by wild animals, half-animals
organ grinders with halitosis
monkey chatter, boas
blowguns downtown
spells turn tasks to trees,
wedding gifts turn to pennies
then the factory explodes
and Christmas is always just around the corner
(...we're dreaming again)
back to this wood, this work of art
and you see yourself in it
ravishing a peasant girl     an overhead perspective
swirled in mist     profane for the dull glow
of your (his) petty needs     and how she responded
still makes the room flicker as you think of that painting
and you in it, the dream of you
in a thicket south of the carnival
how fangs sprouted hundreds      thousands
of years ago and are drawing first blood
and this is what quickens your heart
derriere, bosom, copulation
examine the gilt     a powder a mist
excuse yourself to yourself
by thoughts of a sub-atomic level
where sunrise might as well be sunset
and there's no wrong answer, no petty needs
or ideals, and now its a poem
instead of flesh and blood, instead of entropy
and chance


� 2004 by John Eivaz