Silver
Louie dreamed through an open head bone,
tilted
back, eyes rising inward,
a
train igniting down the tracks…
all
the faces,
the
nameless in downpours,
round
warmth, animal faces in dreams,
smeared
eyes of the moon…
and
Silver Louie,
dried
apple sauce and ketchup in his pockets,
gas
station towelettes
and
bath water he carried in a bucket,
his
lower lip quivering like a silver jewel
bright
with tear,
ecstatic,
lifting off the ground…
a
note in his pocket,
as
translated from the original gibberish,
was
written,
“To
the King of the Deep Motion,”…
in
his head the king was half Lee Marvin
as
“Emperor of the North,”
half
Anton Chekhov in a photograph,
turning
time into fire,
and
half
kelp
bed of the sea,
embracing
the underwater sun…
three
halves, that locomotive grin, that camphor-champagne, that Kwakiutl rock weed
walking
headlong into the depths…
the
light endured on Louie’s bones...
spectral
illumination…
in
the night his voice,
explaining
the underbed of thought…
in
the night his little eyes, still sweet…
then
in the night, the back of the shoulder push at the wide gate,
and
gone…
the
whole moment,
scattering,
crashing through honeysuckle,
upaway
through red berry,
flying,
the
heart in dreamic pulse…
and
the dream’s choice?
feathered
legs,
stone
open mouth,
and
lung of moonlight—
brick
pillow bone,
brick
dream bone,
head
askew and off the cuff
leaping
from the clavicle,
226,951
miles from his toe bones
to
the capping bridge of his nose…
Silver-plated
Louie lifting his arms,
kneading
his heart
into
an iron mould of broken moonlight,
welded
together,
stretching
across counties, century miles,
street
signs and land electric through the dark…
ah,
here…
his
heart pressed into the street,
embreath-ed,
determined,
unbound
as galaxies
faintly
colliding through a missing tooth…
as
Silver Louie dreamed,
we
are all
mostly
space…