, , , ,

The fever dream broke around 6:15 this morning, and that’s where I am today. In and out of the fever dream. Hp took care of my classes while I had nightmares in the sheets. I am upright at a desk, which is a good thing, and I haven’t needed any cold meds since before dinner. Summer flu= double bummer.

Here is what I’m listening to tonight, in the flu haze:

This is the good stuff. I have about as much of a poem in my brain tonight as I did last night, but I’m going try anyhow. I think this poem might just be a collection of sounds. Is that okay?

The World is Feverish

The world is feverish, and a child who quivers in the death of day, a merely babe shuddering in arms. This is the weight of one dream, rocking and rocking out of the decades. Sure, look up at the angel at noontime, and think of epiphanies, look up in the night and reconsider neuroses and blank fears, look up in the sunrise and see the arrows of bright graces.

The world is feverish and confused, now, and now the distant lessons across unseen wires come flying down, with the jagged teeth of one carnivorous insect, to pierce and bite and sting. What becomes of anything, new and new discovered, in the bright blue light, now, with the fastest keystrokes?

The world is feverish and rehearsed, and tired in its stories, but is has the mountains left, to echo off the glaciers. Here is something to discover, the sound off the rock, and the big chords of water off the rock, the world is feverish and pristine, broken and clean, pristine, and now, and loud.


So….maybe I’m still a little feverish, or else that wouldn’t have gone so fast. Night, poemies. Happy Monday.