The Girl of Faces Many Times Over The girl
who was in my dream
is in my mind still
the face that
I connected
to,
like a screw
is driven
like a bolt
is wrenched
like mechanics
long
for steadfast
completion,
and how I wanted to be a handy man
with metal tools clipping from my handyman belt
a hard handyman hat capping my head
and be worn by a baggy blue navy handyman suit,
when I saw her
silhouette
in the corner of the ice cream shop just before
returning home Fri. night
and when I sat myself down two seats from her
after scoops had been clumped into my cone,
and now she was in the light
hopefully not enlightened to the fact
that I had sat so purposefully near her
but hopefully aware
that there
was
intent interest; a drawing to
(else my purpose would have no purpose)
and suddenly the dream is swarmed with color
the aquamarine blue ice cream walls
the dream is flooded with flavor
white pink orange sorbet brown sugar cone
and then she turns her head
and the dream
is inundated
with her,
and my subconscious
is invaded by my
conscious
connection
horizontal gravity
and although I find it so erotic
when magnets of opposite poles
bump their ends together,
this is nothing compared to
when the red-silver horseshoes
attract
and pull stars and moons inward
to shine elusive backdrops
upon
mere men
and women
who are normally content to scatter themselves amongst storming swarms
and whizz
past
never stopping to ask
Do your constellations
align to produce
interstellar emancipation?
but now in the fluorescent epiphany
temptation
is a molecular certainty
and I see
her face tanned healthy
eyes down-to-earth-low-key
and though she was sitting I know she is tall
hair profound blonde let loose down straight as scarecrow straw
glasses red like candy
or were they a pensive black,
I somehow can’t recall
even though the image is upon my cerebral lobes implanted perfectly,
such is the way dreams are,
most likely her glasses were both
red but black at the same time
and we are sometimes asked if we see colors when dreaming
and of course we do
it is just hard to tell or describe
because we see so many colors
where in reality only one color could be;
Oh, the magnitude
the intensity
of dreams.
So of course
when she beheld me as I had beheld her
we knew
everything
of the affairs
surrounding
in a flash
we rushed out
as soon as a final orange scoop was grinded by the shaker for me,
and we went to my house,
which is when
the scenes and sequences
split
and suddenly I see her face again
this time a lip-sticked analogous Marylin Monroe
albeit a more homely than demure demeanor
and I find out that I just kissed those
chameleon lips
but somehow did not experience it,
only heard of it off-handedly
the way sex is cut in a PG-13 movie
or a dignified actress who plays a lover will smoke a post-carnal cigarette while covering her flush breasts and flamboyant nipples with white sheets and smother her sensuality with purity
yes this is just the way I kissed my lover dreamily,
I did not feel nor witness the event
but by the context of the story
I know it happened,
and so I suppose that it is for fantasies instead of dreams
the following tango we would dance without the aid of clothes,
as I behind her massage her straight wide circular shoulders with wet kisses and her bone curvaceous neck with marked sucks and playful bites and feel my chest to her back and my stomach to her lower back and my hand to firmly whisk away her felt fuchsia bra and lord to feel her what I would give to have felt her in the dream and to have in my real world waking life continued and stripped my pants and her pants and my baggy blue boxer shorts and her panties which would probably be pink and look so soft upon her buttocks which curve, curve, like a divine potter with his wheel dripping clay-drops from a swirling formation
and let me endeavor further to wish to have
came
together,
hands grasping
each other
firm and erogenous
came into
her pulsating thighs her womb
her tunnel
and driven to the exit
where the heavenly light would be shimmering
and oh to
give and take ecstasy
and rise together aloft to heaven
where lovers alone can go
and oh to
plant
impregnate
create
as fate
intends,
and oh for this to never end
until we fall asleep
in each other’s arms completely
upon my purple velvet quilt
in front of my windows,
open altars to the city night
and the stars
both which must be worshipped in hope
for their ability to bring such miracles of life together,
until we fall asleep
dreaming dreams within a dream
pondering nothing short of
the infinity
the epiphany
that all this would be
and Oh, for this to not be
nothing more than fantasy
that I so longingly
put into poetry.
But this did not happen
in real life
nor even in the dream itself;
the last time I saw her
before the alarm clock sent me on my way to school
was the next day
(speaking strictly in dream time,
of course,
which is like a clock with a break and a throttle
it can speed up and span days in a night
or come to a stop and be suspended in thick steamy air
or it can cruise alongside Big Ben and all the many satellites where the spacemen sip their coffee and urinate in float,
which is why I go to sleep and soon thereafter dream of encountering this girl late at night and then just before I wake up I encounter her again in the early morning sun),
which brooded over northwest Greenwich Village
12th street between 6th and 7th avenues
where I ran into her by chance that occurs so much more plausibly in dreams
as I sought the subway, and perhaps a chat with the homeless man who sits by St. Vincent’s Square
as she left her home
I ran into her under the awning,
and I asked if I should take down her phone number and/or email address
which she eagerly assented I should do
and it is surprising I recognized her in the first place
for her face had changed again
now bearing the guise of
J,
the gothic beauty
who appeared in the movie
My First Mister,
face pierced many times over with silver beads that look so much like salty tears
and arms cut so many times over by silver safety pins
and the soul shut so many times over to the rest of the world until she chanced to meet a man who had shut himself up just the same,
both longing just as much for
love and caring
but
shut
hid
dark
just
the same,
and in the movie the man was Albert Brooks,
but in this dream it was me
and Oh for this not to be
nothing more than fantasy
that I so longingly
put into poetry.