dead sea soul dream tiger wings

"Wooden stairs scrubbed with red brick
Holy water
sprinkled on the floor.
St.
Michael slays that old
demon
quietlike behind the front
door."


Sleep all day, sleep all day- dream of Dead Sea saltwater stinging the scratches on my feet. It feels good, feels real, feels awake, so conscious, the water, I could cry. The way she wants me in her- all the way.

I read something about waves just that day, on the other side- you know, reality- where people beep and scream in traffic, and pigeons die just picking bread and passing children laugh at the blood. This is when you know you don't know.

At their age, you mourned every fallen thing- even iridescent wings with no body. You buried them or saved them in an alabaster box. You kept a wishbone in a lipgloss tin with a sliding lid until maggots grew and your mother made you throw it away. The children laugh and say, stupid bird, stupid bird. This is when you walk home to sleep.

The dreambook said that waves mean change, transition. I say that's shit, it's just what they always say- the one constant they can count on to make sense and sell more books. To me it just means get to the water, quick! Be like the water, quick!

The dream sun is hot on my skin. The dark skinned boys are bare, laughing, kissing on the cheek, waist deep, their AK-47's are asleep on the shore- when did I see this? Oh, that's right- years ago when I was living differently. Before I had to serve my time in a season of despair, which was actually, at times, quite beautiful. You don't know human love until you watch it die while it reaches its hand toward you for help. You don't know human love until you are helpless. You don't know strength until you are lifted out of bed and cradled, carried to your next day.

I fell asleep in you because I needed time to catch the horizon line. My soul was thrown out of my body: a tiger kite flying uncontrollably away, like losing a carnival balloon when you were a baby. Do you remember that feeling? Do you remember watching it float so slowly up and away? That's how I feel about you now. If it could be described, it would be a question. If it could be said, it wouldn't be.

Sleep, a silent, slightly buzzing channel- the comfort of an am radio voice so late at night when no one is awake, but you need to feel connected and you can't count the stripes of passing car lights on the curtains, but you wish it wasn't so cold so you could stand by the window naked and let them stripe your skin like you are an animal. Or if you could just recreate them, recapture them- even for a day. What would you say to him? If your skin was hide and your feet were hooves, would he even matter?

The tiger's eyes are torn from windshock and storm, but the face is recognizable. Way up there it was a myth, a loss, something to watch and wait for. Back in my hands- it's only tinsel. Bury it or put it in an alabaster box, it matters no more, but the illusion of meaning makes your day something to wake to. Put it in and bury the box. Come back years later and see if it's still there, silent. If you let it go and it doesn't come back to you, it was probably meant to be yours. If you let it go and it returns, you better run.