I could never slide my hands
between the dimensions
and feel around for cancer like those
strange surrealists of the ‘70s and ‘80s
who lived in the desert and smoked
Mexican grass, chewing those racecar pills
until something inside of them split
and led them to a crystal moon.
Sometimes I try to reach in and go there
but all I turn up is candy bars and porno,
black eyes and broken keys.
Where is the tree with hands in the place of leaves
and in each hand a mouth and in each mouth a vagina?
Often I want to be that ghost in the neon
or the cloud on the mountain. Instead
I shave myself with fingers of sausage
and spend the mornings trying to decipher
the clues of where in this dimension
I have come from
and where I will be going next
standing there in the kitchen
daydreaming the puzzle into existence
trying not to completely blow
this incredible lucky chance
to occupy a portion of space and time
right now, already lost, already
looking to be found.
Painting: Jacek Yerka, “Dreaming”