Stephen Mead


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.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s