To go the extra mile wearing
spectacles with cleansed visions of tomorrows and of Johanna clean and clear
For the night is a swimming pool
filled with coffee in which I swim with the moon and an inflated tiger that refuses
to sink
Fear is a cloudy kite that flies
and floats over our heads reflecting our states of mind in three dimensions of
solid, liquid, and gas
On a night with dreams of hunting
vultures and complex numbers listening to old tunes where young men and women
long to be in the arms of each other
And the other song is sung to
the tune of silver moonlight that floods the rooms of lonely lovers with windows
hiding behind or on the other side of thin blue veils curtains
Their songs are sung with
mandolins of eight strings each – eight, eight, eight upright infinities and the
number of prime numbers unknown like the intentions of lovers
Who make promises in desert
mirages and mirror images of desert sands and camels that are the ships of the desert that however promise not to sink when they brush against icebergs of the
desert sand dunes oh the seas of sand
But the promises of lovers who
leave refuse to leave the wind – or should one call it the breeze of the desert
– as they move from left to right and then from the west to the east moving
against sunlight but with the shadows
Shadows of long coats have arms
that are longer than the arms of the law flaw claw blah, blah, blah – country singers
have sung more and much more about that
But what made a lover leave their
lover with four hundred children when listened to for the first time later
corrected by someone else that the children are just hungry – four hungry
children – and it is impossible to remember the capital of Hungary when you wake
up from a dream in the middle of the night on a steel cot whose skin is cold
like that of a lizard that wears the skin of a lion or a lizard falling into a
tin of blue paint running amok through forests claiming to be the kin of every animal
in the forest till it rains
New letters of new lovers
pretend to be something else – like sheets of a calendar that measure the
passing of many a birthday, wedding anniversaries, festivals, annual days of
remembrance and pages of newspapers are filled with little boxes paid for by the square
inches – announcements, obituaries, words, words, words, wanted salespersons! Apply
here, here and here – there – post box numbers, prime numbers, seventeen or
thirty-one ah well just another evening of a bluesy Sunday when the sun has set
once upon a long time ago listening to the story of a bear that did not mind
being a bear that once went on a long walk seeing a lion the way behind the rustling
of a shrub or should one call it a bush I wonder what you would have called it
had you been there – I wonder what you would say had you been here and I wonder
where you are now, I wonder what you would have said to me had you been there
and the bear runs home but the lion takes a shortcut and reaches home even
before the bear does and the bear opens the door to see the lion that the bear thinks
is another lion and so as the story goes in past tense, the bear ran to its
friend’s house and stayed there for five hours till it felt safe before coming home
and oh what joy to find a home sweet home so safe and clean – ideally there
should be an exclamation mark here but everything is ok on a day like this – or
should it be anything is ok – should there be a question mark here – but they
everything and anything goes so, so
