Patterns

I wake up

from dreams 

of poetry

and just the edges are 

left to me

a fragment

a tiny scrap of lines

that my fingers

can barely 

hold on to.

The answer is to make more

the answer is to harvest

from the fields

of any who will let you in

to slide together the

jack and cable

and mix poetry

on the console of my 

intellect

or ladle it straight up

out from the pot that is set 

over the fire of my emotions.

The people who love me

bring me lots of kindling 

same with the people 

who don’t love me

and many who are indifferent 

which may 

cause me to be wild

which may provoke 

attacks of arson

with poetry that is on fire

when they gaze 

vacantly on me

and I want them to 

feel something.

In my dream

I was reading the poems

to you, and you said, “More, more.”

which is all the 

encouragement 

that I need 

so I light up my phone again

in the dark

and use my fingertip

to trace out the letters

and make patterns

with them.

Allen & Heath Mixing desk for live performance

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Audio_mixer_faders.jpg#/media/File:Audio_mixer_faders.jpg