Silver Louie / Ben Gulyas

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…

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