Goddesses of a Good Nap
Posted: May 22nd, 2016, 12:27 pm
pages of my novel rustle
like a flip-book on the ground,
The Subterraneans speak a language
without punctuation
I'm daydreaming to the sound
of yellowed paperback pages, flapping
like baseball cards clothes-pinned
to the spokes of a bicycle
dropped from a wrinkled tired hand
that loses its grip as the mind slips off
to the greens and blues of REM, the violets,
reds and yellows of prismatic flight
the breeze is steady like a lighthouse beacon,
the mind wanders a house with endless rooms
a wonderland for nappers that didn't plan to roam....
Jack Kerouac is there with his black lover Mardou
she is flowing in a see-through cotton dress
her presence highlighted my her sleek ebony thighs
providing the back-lighting for an oil painting
hanging in the gallery of a twilight museum,
she purses her lips like Parthenope when she sang
like a woman half-fish to the Argonauts
like a Shakespearean soliloquy you dream perchance
to resurrect the man that can't stay awake anymore
when he tries to read his books, you conjure up
the sirens for this old-timer that still has dreams
that are young....
dreams that don't apologize for the age that has come
to him when he wasn't paying attention....he says to himself,
in a low recognizable voice,..."one day I was stud
and the next day they just put me out in the back pasture"
like a flip-book on the ground,
The Subterraneans speak a language
without punctuation
I'm daydreaming to the sound
of yellowed paperback pages, flapping
like baseball cards clothes-pinned
to the spokes of a bicycle
dropped from a wrinkled tired hand
that loses its grip as the mind slips off
to the greens and blues of REM, the violets,
reds and yellows of prismatic flight
the breeze is steady like a lighthouse beacon,
the mind wanders a house with endless rooms
a wonderland for nappers that didn't plan to roam....
Jack Kerouac is there with his black lover Mardou
she is flowing in a see-through cotton dress
her presence highlighted my her sleek ebony thighs
providing the back-lighting for an oil painting
hanging in the gallery of a twilight museum,
she purses her lips like Parthenope when she sang
like a woman half-fish to the Argonauts
like a Shakespearean soliloquy you dream perchance
to resurrect the man that can't stay awake anymore
when he tries to read his books, you conjure up
the sirens for this old-timer that still has dreams
that are young....
dreams that don't apologize for the age that has come
to him when he wasn't paying attention....he says to himself,
in a low recognizable voice,..."one day I was stud
and the next day they just put me out in the back pasture"
