dream, and even then, revised

prologue

he is ready to implode to twirl
in the curtain to return her bra
and panties to the closet of his
imagination and oh if he only knew
how much harder it is going to get

1.
originally chained to science
the abracadabra of year number 12
transferred my heart's bondage

before I was a romantic
after, a romantic with a penis
indeed who
loved the girls and not just
for their use, not just for
their looks, and not just for the
complex games they played with
my mind. I cared about the idea

of Girl, of the mom, the sister,
the daughter, the lover, the wife.
She who brought us all here.
I was in my 20s when I knew I could see
something was wrong in how we
related to each other, the boys
and the girls, the men and the women

I could see the hatred coming from fear
in the faces of the males that I
knew well and I could see the fear
and the need for cunning in the faces
of the women I knew well. Of course
we were mostly in our 20s then, so
none of us knew shit. Not really.
Not shit that would later
turn out to be good and useful.

Thus the journey boogied on
from one sad escapade of flesh or
ego driven desire, slick with the
juices, sayanora to the rational
we did the artiste thing living
passionately striving for the
honest heart

but dragged then into the
tornado of hormonal mis-truths
for the sake of come see me
darling girl for the sake of
change for you or change for me
I'll be what you must want or
you can be what I desire

what dreary fateful
lingerie a lonely slip
to quote the dude abiding
and night after evening light
this woman or that understanding
not what I knew or know but
what is truly believed I finally
came to the Lady and this one
I married in my heart
finally for real


2.
Even now the Hammer
builds His house within the structure
I live in and in His house He wants
His way the possibility of truth
only lurking there central air disclosing
all the odd desires the ones
that reveal that which humiliates us
we think is making us stronger

tell this then to the twelve year old
he is always humiliated and when
he discovers his worth is measured
in teaspoons on a daily basis &
any given girl can catch that
memory and return it with a meaning
he will awaken in the night
clutching himself in yet another dream
and even then


This is a re-write of a recent poem. Much of the hard work here was contributed by my old friend, Sandra Riseman, a poet of real talent herself. I first met Sandy in the poetry seminar that was the first creative writing class taught at Sangamon State University in the fall of 1972 by John Knoepfle. This class also included Springfield writers Jane Morrel, Janne Hanrahan, Steven Dolgin, and myself. All of these folks were aligned with the Scarritt writers group. Sandra later went to the graduate writers program at Hollins College and then made her way to the University of Alabama at Tuscaloosa, where she found a life and where she lives today.

I know this piece is not finished, but I feel it was opened up by Sandy's re-ordering. I worked on the language some and changed it in several places. I hope to re-visit it in the next couple of weeks. Suggestions are welcomed.