last night's dream corrected (with light coming in from the east)
sean.
oh bathsheba two words of house.
her dusty feet sprinkle golden surgical openings.
greta garbo is not my sister.
a door opens and i enter like someone who--he
sits in a chair, reading a book, unaware of my theme music, turning crispy pages back and forth, compromising passages.
greta plays with her toy boats. she uses the rug as the ocean. her sunlight pasted above a map of the medulla oblongata.
"i have to take off my dress or the rain will stop", she says.
"yes, that is true", i say.
i follow her onto the grass, where i paint the lingo.
it is me.
but,
"beautiful" i hear. "beautiful".
"how did you do that?". "we didn't know you could".
it is unfinished.
greta, my sanguine hypothesis, your flag is an opiate dress the marching band salutes. it is a painting of you and your country (by this lake) the room is brighter and better for reading the lattice pitch of children covered by folds of
happening.
it is a testament to the conceivable.
but,
"remarkable".
greta?
i can't paint.
sean brijbasi ©2002
