First he wants to cut my hair and I demur

but he insists and gets it done and it is just

perfect, something I’d never have come up with

on my own, angular, askew, that derelict

kind of fucked-up pretty that’s always drawn me,

drawn him too, I guess,

and then he’s gone.  Rest of the dream

he’s latent, possibility, maybe

sweating out a nightstand sickness somewhere,

or stripped out, caught breaking on a stage, or touching

his girl’s face, confused by love, mistrusting

grace.  I’m in another place called Lake Shore

something, empty rooms, dark wood scratched-up

floors, and so damned glad to be alone.


Outside there’s water, stretch of blue,

stretch of black and I have to see how deep

and then I seem to sleep and someone’s

walking through my rooms and I can’t get my eyes

to open can’t get up to see another

dream and I knew the smell of late-day spring

the wetness of the place sweet smoke


from up the street a vision of the voice of dread

fragile as a star’s mind and he speaks of human blues

and being stultified and lets up on the string

before it breaks he hates me hates it all

I say don’t talk like that remember what the miracle was about

you will know it when you’re safe a spree

for all time he’s gone again nothing


but a passer-by with song, guitar and gun

imagined and mercurial blue eyes.


Photo By: Look Into My Eyes