"When lines are in parallel," I think as I dream,
"Does that mean they never meet in undiscovered other dimensions?"
I'm dreaming Salvador Dali.
I'm thinking metaphysics and
wondering if it's really art in disguise.
Like persistence of memory
time has a way of melting watches
and other things that go tick
or click in the night.
This feeling of being sheltered by your shadow is a dissociative disorder.
It puts my body next to yours, though like Jonah, you too live in Wales.
I'm counting up perfect moments,
finding direction in their music,
smiling at their secrets
at the most inopportune times.
For example: I am suited up in formal Ms. Biz style
absorbing charts and statistics of import to someone while
I'm undressing you
feeling your fingers
touch my tongue.
(I thought I could only bring you back
with eyes closed, alone in bed,
but I've practiced keeping wide eyed.)
It looks to the conferees like I'm observing
the meat of vital corporate issues, when
I've been flush with true flesh and fire.
Perfect moments.
Minor miracles.
The 50 seconds of the 10 minutes in my hour
when gender differences are complementary
when faith replaces the need for explanations.
My very own life soundtrack album.
A religion.
A mythology.
Mine. mine. mine.
I'm hoping I'll stay rich with them and get to be so old that
perfect moments will crowd out my day-to-day dullness and keep me fresh.
The rest of the world will see my shell and think senility, but
I'll be so crowded with perfect moments that time
will have snapped its conventional boundaries.
I'll sit eyes open replaying miracles, ticking them off for the staff nurses...
The first night fireworks over Boston Harbor with a new shimmer purple blaze.
The first time I talked to Charlie on the phone.
Hundreds of first times with his fingers.
The night Steve read me poetry and the moment I knew I'd have him.
The day the snow fell on 81st St. with Rich's tears.
Every time I've heard Roger sing.
The light show at Saint Fillmore and the designer's sofabed collapse.
Laura sleeping on my chestone week old.
Guitar shopping with Marco.
Drinking Tequila with Greg.
Russell showing me the bass fiddle in the closet.
My first kisswhat was his name?
My first Lindt chocolate on my tongue in London.
1000 or more 1 a.m.s with Barbara and all the other talked hours.
The lights in the parking lot the night my sister was born.
The first time I carried my brother.
Abandoned in the mountain rain with Keith.
Dancing at the Rat.
Barking (among other things) with Barry.
Waiting for comet Kahoutek in Delaware County, Ohio.
Mick Jagger's 30th Birthday flowers.
The Dave Clark 5 waking 5 of us on a cold waterbed.
Crying with mom at the movies.
Fucking a fisherman on the pier because we both missed the Hatteras ferry.
Memorial Day jams at Tom and Lisa's.
The Rick Quell tattoo story.
Getting windblown and wild with the spinnaker set.
Talking to dad about the meaning of life.
Kol Nidre in Amsterdam.
Seeing your eyes close-up after the smoke effect cleared.
I could (and probably should) fill up this book with many more...
but I think I'll save the full-time recounting.
Alzheimer's army will march soon enough.
For now, (whatever that means)
I'm still applying dots to the canvas,
remembering moments yet to come,
and preserving songs in jewel boxes.
I'm frying my clocks before they've hatched and
wondering if the little lines on my palm will increase in depth
and join the love and life lines together
or will they stay parallel.