OK, let's see.
All right, all right, all right.
Poetry for later.
I always expected to make it back,
but it turns out my body was smaller
and more attached to its beginnings than I thought.
So I won't end up where I started, no surprise there I
suppose.
Though, I'll probably feel a bit shocked all the way through.
Familiarity has its charm as real as sex
and it's a lot more spread out.
I'll jot down some lasting impressions, sorry,
last impressions.
Last night I caught a fragile glimpse of the writing surface
of dreams.
It was like a sheet of water, I could
feel as an edge, my body interrupted.
I was in a pool sticking out and when
I wanted anything, felt desire as the words say,
then the edge would disappear.
It would be the same temperature as me and I'd find myself back
in the narrative, which was something
about getting published.
There was a tall building downtown
San Francisco where they put together
flyers they distribute in laundromats.
These were frequented by large immigrant populations, as well
as disgruntled aristocrats back from the ex-colonies.
Then I was in the laundromat naked
washing the books I had managed to save from the war.
These were quite sturdy as you might imagine,
the sex practices of the 60s set to music
by Marianne Moore and Jimi Hendrix.
People would study these, as well as other power sources:
wind, sun, line, rigs.
Once a page would get clean enough,
then I could write on top of it.
Like now, fake dreams, skittish prophecy,
it didn't matter as long as the breath came a little quicker.
The pulse firmed and skipped, not too much.
The door between centuries turns out to be quite narrow.
An Egyptian pulled glass bottle in the shape
of a fish, six words to name a nipple, my heart's
pounding a bit, it must be the future, so long.