Life as it is, motivates the eccentric to dream dreams
that have all the vividness of reality.--Dr. David Weeks
Among the rising sun and the sweet
chirping of birds in twisted branches
he dreams of animals in the Congo
jungle, unknown to the world. Dreams
of his perpetual-motion machine
hovering above blue grass, the
distant hum of the blowfly circling
the mouth of his ears. His machine
constructed from an old bed, a wicker
linen basket, a number of hair dyers
and vacuum cleaners, hundred of odds
and ends cannibalized with sirens
and flashing lights. Sometimes the
brain knows what it takes to bridge
another morning. His dreams
a strand of pearls around a horse’s
neck, his mind an unsettled clock.
He dreams his latest contraption:
half bicycle, half rocking horse.
A horse’s head, flanks, hind hooves
adorned with reflectors and stick-ons
that spell out “Disco Kid.” His ideas
blossom like sage bush, his thoughts
the loud notes of sharp tongues.
If this is a man’s destiny he must
cross the river of shadows and sing
his voice among the garden of
flaming trees. He must burn his
song into stone, wood and earth.
He must ignore the silence of
footsteps because discovery
is it’s own reward.
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