The Dream of An Office

…Ranks of books
On the sides — old Miltons, Tolstoys, Wuthering
Heights
, Ackermann’s Oxford. A holograph
Copy of Keats’s “To Autumn”…

— from The Dream of a House, Reynolds Price

I find myself in medias res
as one always does in dreams
in a small office, such as
an associate professor
at a branch campus
like the one I attended
would have.

In real life I have
a home office
my office at my company’s office
an office under construction at a new location
an office I can borrow at my company’s main office
and the use of a co-working space downtown 

So it’s not surprising that I’ve forgotten about this one
since it doesn’t really exist
but still I kick myself for having done so
and wonder why I rented the co-working space
which really does exist
and what would have happened
to all these books, every single one of them
a Penguin edition, bearing an orange and white spine,
had I not remembered them, or this wonderful view,
this forest outside a picture window.

Still dreaming, but starting to suspect,
I think of Reynolds Price’s poem
The Dream of a House
and compare my middlebrow taste in dream books.

But the principal motivation remains,
the recurring theme in these many
fugues of the subconscious
This is yours, understand. Meant for you.
Permanent.

I wake before being taken to the closet.

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The Same Earth

My sons march on the same earth
I practiced on a different century ago
but that was before I tried writing a novel
getting married, watching
Remains of the Day.

I can’t recognize the place
because the new band room
and a fence has been added on
and so much grass has grown
since then.

Booze and Jetlag

As shown in a movie like Lost in Translation
best experienced with headphones, the way
sounds of a strange city come at you wrong
out of phase

are what separate you from the self
that worries about the past and future, which
liberates you for a moment

which must nevertheless be saved up for,
and paid with interest.

There You Have It

If they’re tolling a church bell
You figure all is well
In your little farming town
Where you have it there you have it there you have it

But if a storm should come one day
And wipe the steeple all away
You wouldn’t have it wouldn’t have it wouldn’t have it

Where everything is bought in sweat, and bought in tears
And sought in prayer, where people stop you
If they think that what you’re doing will stop the rain

Generations later on
Where junk is selling for a song
In a land where you can have it you can have it

And insurance pays the grift
And someone else will take the hit
So you can have it you can have it you can have it

Then why would you wait for things
Or keep your conscience on a chain
If you can have it you can have it you can have it

A wise man said What would you gain
If you had the whole damn thing
But lost your soul – well there you have it there you have it

If they’re tolling a church bell
You figure all is well
In your little farming town
Where you have it there you have it there you have it.

Found poem: Spam comment

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This is simply a cut and paste from a spam comment I received in another site. I’m not too worried about the spammer’s rights to this work, but if any of this is something you legitimately wrote, let me know and I’ll take it down.