THE DAY WHEN UNCLE WROTE THE DREAM

In my book I wrote a dream
that grew, projected on a screen
I dipped my brush in ink and drew
a little world, in green and blue.

I wrote a song for them to sing
in counterpoint, my men of string
with matchstick oars: they kept the time
in animation, line by line.

I salvaged them a land of gold
near-mint / as-new / as good as sold
(I built their country out of stones
upon a bed of tiny bones).

I taught them life!  I gave them laws!
and in each headpiece – filled with straw –
I moulded minds out of the air
to bear a little thought, and prayer.

Again!  I stabbed my pen and drew
banners of crimson streams and blue.
I flagged the trails.  I ground the rocks
to clad the skyline building blocks
(for nephews, nieces, ever green,
who pledged allegiance to the screen)

The coins that in my pockets rolled
flattened their eyes and arched their souls:
the metal slid through slots of steel
to drive the motors and the wheels
which raised the towering walls of light
(to seize the day and free the night)
with tangled wires
I dammed the flood
of fear which shook my flesh and blood –
my nephews, nieces, ever green,
who lived to polish the machine;
to raise the stakes, insure the gain,
revere the lady with the flame
(that matchbox emblem “LIBERTY”
from antique realms across the sea) –

the lights went down.
I almost laughed
till canvas sank across my path
the colours ran corroding through
the frame that sheared the strings in two
the counterpoint became a shout
as shining cogs exploded out
destroyed the pristine marble floor
laid bare my world’s vibrating core
a howling cistern filled with flies
the blackened lungs the sunken eyes
choked out – at once – a thousand cries.

Yet, still the author of their trust,
on silent blanket plains of dust,
with heavy lids I faced the night
and, with my tears, began to write.

11/9/02

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