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Dreaming of Prompts

April 4, 2011

When I went to bed I thought of you
writing a poem in your underwear, eating
peanuts & cotton candy leftover from a show
under the Big Tent, or was that only a dream?

Then I wake up in a strange hotel, wonder
who am I, why there is no balcony, then realize
that was in ’96, when the hotel in LA
did have a balcony & I had no cell phone.

So I called up Christie Brinkley on the hotel phone.
She had been all over the magazines, newspapers
& I wanted to meet her.  Since I wasn’t myself
I was someone else & she agreed to come over.

“What can I bring?” she asked on the phone
“some beer, wine?”  We agreed on wine, red
then she wondered if she should dye her hair.
I said let’s discuss the color when you get here.

She arrived in an hour in a black sheath dress
to the knee, sexy shoes with pointy heels.
I poured wine into the hotel glasses;
glass, not plastic like here, now this room.

It was hot on the balcony & we undressed to
our underwear, which wasn’t far for her to go.
A pigeon landed on the railing, blinking a red eye
& Christie picked up her shoe, crushed the bird’s skull.

“I’m afraid of pigeons,” she said.  I’m not afraid
of any animals, even dangerous ones in cages, I said.
The pigeon’s feathers drifted like pieces of smog
over the streets of LA, its body quiet on the balcony.

But that was memory, this is imagination:
me, standing on your patio, late summer night
outside the sliding doors to your bedroom
watching you in your underwear writing a poem.

It is hot & I’m sweating.  I take off my sneakers, socks
pants, down to just a tee shirt & underwear, too.
I’m afraid your husband will find me here
come after me like a raging dog, or coyote.

You write your poem in a black notebook, black pen
your cell phone blinking blue beside you.
Your panties a dark, animal pattern, like your ass
is part of an critter I am no longer afraid of.

But I am afraid – afraid of interrupting you
of startling you, of you being angry with me
for seeing you undressed in your room.
More, for stopping the poem.

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From → Poems

8 Comments
  1. A beguiling narrative merging documentary immediacy with the properties of dream. Very compelling, right up to that killer punchline. Put me in mind of Burroughs.

  2. You took me on a tour through your dream, which was intriguing. The last line: ultimate crime to interrupt the poet’s flow!

  3. Could we be stalkers even if it’s just a dream, could we interrupt a poet’s flow… Sometimes writing we do enter into areas we have never been… this is a captivating piece to read, both chilling and warm at the same time.. the first and second person view makes me feel like a stalker reading it…:-)

  4. That first stanza drew me in – writing a poem in your underwear – and, although the voyeurism made me feel a little bit uncomfortable, I enjoyed the read!,

  5. Such an effective lure to the underlying charm of your poem 🙂

  6. Interesting – a fantasy, a surreal dip into the spying mind of a lover, a poet, a dreamer..or perhaps a peeping tom??! Well done.

  7. Darkly interesting subject… you did cover it poetically.

  8. sMiLes..
    who
    dreamed
    who.. AC
    d
    C and
    all bE
    ‘tween..:)

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