A Poem On Thanksgiving (Dreams of A Grecian Mystic)

A Poem On Thanksgiving (Dreams of A Grecian Mystic)

there's a bird chirping outside
my window and a Mediterranean boy
who's been in my dreams
the last couple of nights.

my first thought was:
"It's too cold for that baby bird!"
ignoring the Grecian mystic
for as long as I can,

shuffling my feet at the end
of my bed, throwing the covers
around a bit, faking a yawn;
he's still there in my brain,

until finally, there's nowhere
between us. I say again:
"It's too cold for that baby bird!"
the boy stares blankly ahead.

without a word, he hands me a coin.
I'm unsure what to say,
so I nod and trace the contours
of a gold coin with a star on the back.

there are things to be thankful for;
strange dreams, gold coins, baby birds.
the fall of an empire, the rise
of a new star -- everything is changing.

all of it, meaningless; without you
I don't dream. Instead, I'm
a lost Mediterranean boy in a baseball park
trying to get home on Thanksgiving.

Godard Without Pretension (Actors With Tragic Lines)

the breath you exhale,
quiet and sacred to me,
leaves me breathless, like
Godard without the pretension,
and sometimes, it's a choice
between nothingness and love,
where no one is being sincere
-- actors with tragic lines.

I long for your hands,
which hold my heart in place,
Atlas of my universe,
carrying the ugly realizations
of an ugly man, flawed and
scarred. you kiss me anyway,
knowing that winter could steal
us away -- frozen stares forever.

I place your key
inside my chest, being both,
sign and signifier, for timeless
trust in a feeling we both
feel -- the entelechy appearing
entirely outside the realm
of language, drawing the breath
out of me, where, "I love you,"
meets forever.