Pull the Shade on the Morning

 

Dawn finally made something of the sun, less thirsting than cars in hot traffic, sparrows breezing across beams, blocks and pulleys, cop behind the sycamore, burning to give chase to Him, who don’t make the law as you know, the world as we knew it, DEW watching the skies for us, if violets are blue, what is it again that is red, I couldn’t remember, you asked, your leg on mine, in my dream. The phone, I said, the phone is red, that’s the way folks been dreaming it, from the time we was little babies.  I never dream, the one who held me told me, and we can’t see the stars for the light shining all night into our rooms. But, he said, you can go out in the driveway anytime of night, find the check you dropped there.  The bright, July-heavy trees spread light-quenching above the house, where the dreamless one suds up my arms, feet, and head.  Those who loved us pleaded with us not to make waves, not to abandon our beliefs, not to stuff our mouths with sweets – towels me dry, seeming not to notice me jiggling my thing, the little sir all decked out in a tight suit, ready for the slow minute hand.  Wonder was it all this caused us to take our summers inebriated, harass the streets, amend the ‘Glades, want for quarters to get into the park, like resting lilies, all the while a whisper in the heavens that the rains will blaze orange, torch your porch, let DEW do the worrying, you can go boldly in the driveway anytime of night, find the tear you left there, if this is the way it is to dream, maybe it is better not to?  Mornings guzzling warm honey, throwing tiles down one by one, by the soft flames standing, dehydrated glistenings of spin coming across the sober waves.  Tired of the shady work you’ve been doing, craving the smiling blade of tomorrow, Miss, please, bring another one, just three-fourths, please, understanding rightly neither what you need or should use.  But you and I, we realized after it all happened, did not do any of these things, but drink coffee shake our eyes, look straight up don’t blink arrested, there it is, the keg of the sun breaking into twenty little folds.  Damn it then: let the trees creep into the windows, the birds make homes of beer cans and coffee heaps, the flies kiss our lips.  The laws run cloudier each day (except when it don’t), roadwork turns out to be nowhere about here.  You who’ve stopped long before alone feel the cries are just beginning, but we’ve seen it through a long time, do not remember what any dawn may have looked like or the middle of the day, your eyes like petals licking the dome of our baby’s head, glistening gold, it is the middle of the day, and it is answer the phone, can’t get it, you answer it, we yell back at each other, and whatever we raised sings lingers in our hearts more than anything rising.

             Till the next time.

                                                                 -Greg Burgess, April 2006

This was inspired by Dadist hat tricks and  William Burrough’s cut ups.  Except they pasted words randomly together — my idea is to focus on a pre-existing body of words, and generate intentionally from that.  That’ s how I wrote “Moby Dick: A Work in Progress, published in neotrope, and a number of other  so far unpublished pieces.  Here I use only the words  I sing on the CD.  The poem is derived solely from the lyrics of “Don’t Be That Way,” Dream A Little Dream of Me,” and my own three songs.  Its like a jazz musician improvising — taking somebody else’s melody and flying with it somewhere new.

                          —Greg Burgess