things I might learn

To live trivia needs my attention.
Things I give to myself I'll take,
hang them safely next to my shirts and sweaters,
the ones in my closet,
beneath the stairs,
covered in cream colored carpet,
that lead to a small loft of owls and children
and oranges with sweat 
and two people who won't ever leave.


This all means,
maybe,
that my repressed has turned conscious
by a new bright avenue of my heart,
an avenue that made real my fake mouth,
made fake my sin,
and filling me with interrogations of a
small weak boy of eleven,
not knowing what to know
not knowing the speed of time--
All that I spent in the hay-barn jungle,
name the significance of that experience.


I hope to dream the significance
in a dream where I am the soil, tilled by Natives,
and corn tall upon me
feeding the universe and God
not inside me but just me,
and know how I beat my heart,
and how I shine the sun,
the moon though will be
a good and better friend,
and when I feel the orgasm
of dancing piano and flute feet upon my chest,
the carbon and nitrogen will turn to clouds
and follow the deer who run free of ticks
and guns and train tracks to the ocean.