in my bedside drawer
Cleaned out my bedside table this evening. In the drawer were a scattering of forgotten rejection notices from agents, writers colonies, literary magazines; among them this poem in a SASE postmarked June 8, 2000.
What Dreams
Here, the flies are fat and slow,
to be flicked from my pillow
like cookie crumbs.
Others I hear knocking inside lampshades,
half crazy for the bulb.
Out there, homeless boys
have armed themselves with railroad spikes.
Here, I am god,
staring at the ceiling tiles.
What Dreams
Here, the flies are fat and slow,
to be flicked from my pillow
like cookie crumbs.
Others I hear knocking inside lampshades,
half crazy for the bulb.
Out there, homeless boys
have armed themselves with railroad spikes.
Here, I am god,
staring at the ceiling tiles.
posted by caleb d. at 6:32 PM
5 Comments:
I'd resubmit, dude.
I'm curious what do you think of your poem all these years later? I sometimes look at writing of mine from college and just cringe. I like this poem, but am wondering if you do. But perhaps you wouldn't have posted it if you didn't.
I'm curious about those railroad spikes. Where'd that come from?
I should add that I really like this.
I hear you about coming upon old cringe-inducing writing, Anonymous. I actually found a couple other poems that are best kept in the drawer. As far as What Dreams, it still resonates with me even though that was the first time I'd read or thought about it in many years. It's weird to remember who I was when I wrote it: newly clean and sober, maybe less than a year, but still filled with strong feelings of disconnect and aliention. Even though I've put some distance between me and that person, I still like the images -- the fat flies, the sound of knocking inside a lampshade. As far as the railroad spikes, Torch, I feel like that may have come from a news story at the time. I like the contrast of pure survival and a character pinned to the bed, unable to act.
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