Dream within dream, this translucence almost parallel, superimposing bubble heads pressed against touches or the feeling that there's some squid spread presence upon upon... Wake up sleepy, you're eighty-five & it's delerium, these lips in- escapably bent over, colt at a brook, water under the bridge...It was spring. We were walking. Clear clean air, your laughter, contagious: axles doubled out of mouths, spinning faces...Neither here nor there because, later, slamming doors, I found your fury humorous, though scared of, that word, the divorce... Our hearts, sudden peg legs tottering on a sea-sloshed deck, hardening reluctance, boxes... I didn't know where the hell your old football jersey was and & why should I, damn, care...hitting my finger with the hammer hanging that wreath the trash coughed up our fourth xmas...flirting with the grocery clerk, eggnog woozey..."It wasn't anything, Marsha!"...Of course, silly, seal-eyed out of the tub...your nice climbing body I rather preferred...where are you,..the radiant way of... squabbles, smooches...back a step... back ...we'll see...we'll... Alright, I'm coming to. Stop prodding. Not dead yet. Here is my face, fork. Come bring my dinner
A resident of NY, Stephen Mead is a published artist, writer and maker of short collage-films. His latest project-in-progress, a collaboration with Kevin MacLeod, is entitled “Whispers of Arias,” a two volume download of narrative poems sung to music. His latest Amazon release, Weightless, a poetry-art hybrid, is a mediation on mortality and perseverance.