26 November 2012

Monday Morning

Do you think I'm beautiful,
or do you think I'm evil?

- The Afghan Whigs

Light, instead of sleep,
dotting the corners of each eye,
you are awake
with the realness of dreams
on your mouth, in your sighing.

It's corny, I know,
but I know where you were --
that place in your mind
is my homeland,
where the belly of the earth
is scratched up, used up,
and the buildings line the sky
like jagged, broken teeth.

You rinse your mouth,
your cares, and shake your towel,
which is stiff and cool
like the wind that carried you back to bed,
back to safety.

Don't swallow the wash by accident.
Don't eat breakfast too soon.
Don't rush out of the door too quickly,
forgetting your watch.
Because it's all about time, and it's about time
you took your time,
bathe yourself in dreams,
felt beautiful and clean
instead of evil and a mess.

That dream, with my city --
my tired, rotten city --
is a nice place to visit.
There, you will never
have to watch the clock,
wait for the hands to shift by themselves.
There, you can be home too.

Take my hand, misshapen and cold,
and I can lead you
to the scene of the crime.

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