Scree

My head dissolves;

this pillow's plunging pit.

We are those waves

dividing volumes

at shore's gate.

I dream horses

of mercury emerging

from white oil,

yet bathing in the vanishing tide,

one still stares back,

a distance trapped

in moon's myopic mirror.

Concave night's

my take down phase;

nails pulled from swooning palms,

truth's impulsive hangover

rusting between tongue and teeth,

irony spitting the bloody bits,

dead rites lying in the cold,

stainless steel sink

I built to hide the chimney,

where put out eyes

lathered in gasoline

are talked into an ebbing fire.

I dream of vision

slung on the back

of a seer gone blind-

the clarity of his fingertips

carving features in a flooding cave.

The drowning surface of his face,

a portrait's stone

no prophecy will speak.

The flux of sleep denies

insensate filth

left by black rubber soles

on linoleum pathways

of consciousness,

but acres deep below

I hear the throb of disassembled veins,

numbered in styrofoam and cardboard.

A messenger in an onion-skinned boat

crosses a mindless mote of mortar

and leaves a note:

Islands will no longer be tolerated.

gather your mundane matters

and looming clots.

Appear at the Department of Sod

by midnight on the third toe from

balancing the volatile existence

of multiple realms.

Please wear burlap.

I finally know

where I'm going.