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Buoy the population of the soul
Toward their destination before they drown
~ Robert Pinsky
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Friday, 24. January 2003

A Palmist interprets his dreams.



I held her hand to the sun, imagine how the light spills around a rose when you are looking at it from underneath, that was her hand, her blood showing through her translucent skin, rose red red rose.

She wanted to know a lot of things, for one if I was the one for her, she thought too much and understood too little. So we got along just fine as I knew little and understood how much she hungered to know.

I began to tell her easy consoling lies, truth is always bitter, for example she sometimes said to me, "You are such a loser", ofcourse silently. Such easy servings and so much bitter taste that she sought to dispel when her tounge snaked over mine.

We sucked on each other, each becoming the other's oxygen cylinder, we sucked till our seams unravelled and we burst into flames, we were two zepplins floating in air and burning, I roved my tongue over her deep Martian peaks and valleys, we were so casual with inflammables for we didn't know what burning was then. She would casually straddle me, take me in and say, "Now make me a mother. Help me make a few babies."

So it's only now that I understand, when I awake in my dreams by a vision of lines wriggling, shifting and dying on my plams that it simply marks a hailstorm of babies, all stillborn and all dead.




Big Book Of Poetry












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