Well I know that it’s been a little while since I’ve posted anything, but that
is because I didn’t have anything to say. I’ve been dealing with a good bout
of depression (that probably started earlier than I want to admit) and the
writer’s block, I believe, was/is a symptom of that…maybe. Anyway, I’m
on some medication that has helped so much that I have been able to revise ALL of the NaPoWriMo
2009 poems. I’m working on submissions as well and will be getting those
out later today. So, please enjoy this poem from my unpublished chapbook Urban Tumbleweed, Vol. I.
dreaming in metaphor.
last night I dreamt of Warhol
wearing green crushed polyester,
his arms spread as he flew in a
water colored, tie-dyed, psychedelic sky.
with his feet on the ground,
and nose pressed to glass,
he watched me trapped in Hopper
on my knees
with Chop Suey dripping down my chin.
my dreams turn to leather pants
and Hendrix as court jester,
listening to the chain squeak
as I sway
on the red velvet swing.
soon visions mutate in the
Crayola Midnight Blue
with sleepy memories of
a bone breaking
on a tire swing dismount,
Orange Crush tickling my tongue
coloring it fluorescent in jest,
while I laugh at her failure to fly.
there were sleepy conversations
with a man in leathered skin,
his shell browned by his need for fresh air.
we shared coffee as he babbled on
of his love for Hopper’s Easy Rider
though he didn’t get the end,
to him, it was genius personified.
“do you swing?” he asked
growing larger in height,
the seams of his leather vest
giving in to swollen shoulders,
his eyes crushed flat
and mouth sewn shut
by the word no
(but it was only a dream).
as a child I often flew in dreams.
soaring above telephone wires,
unable to land,
as people laughed
at me
the little jester.
soon finding me unqualified
they found a jester,
new and improved,
as I would fall back to earth
like a rollercoaster.
I once dreamt of a girl
named Hopper
(I think it was a dream).
she taught me
how to fly with out fear,
to kiss with passion,
to swing so high
my feet crushed clouds.
to love the smell of leather.
in childhood memories of REM movies
I would play the role
of Leather Tuscadaro.
so cool I would be
fending off nerds with crushed hearts,
though secretly enjoying it
because Potsie was really my favorite.
with my eyes closed tightly
I dove into a Hopper piece,
sitting on a chair,
swinging my legs,
as I watched Brooklyn and wished for wings.
but now awake,
I sit in silence
as witness to dust flying on
air currents
landing on my old leather jacket.
I sit with quiet on my shoulders
remembering swing sets,
Judy Blume,
and the teasing jests, of boys.
I wait for noise and
think about Hoppers’ last scene
and his motorcycles’ last dance,
reality crushed by a bullet,
how I did get the end.
I no longer dream of flying
and Hendrix resigned as jester,
the smell of leather left me
in a pawn shop
and Hoppers’ only ambition
is to provide the day,
but on occasions my feet still crush clouds
as I swing.
(c) TygerLily Ernst Wonch
