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Michael J. Barney

 

AMERICAN DREAMERS

the cathedral belongs to
us now, we the
architects of money

all our promises of courtesy,
of help mere
exercises in palaver

we get what we
want without asking
without explanation

(slaves to happiness
get the same effect
with drugs, I bet:

the hard craving
the pretense
the murderous glances

ruining lives, causing
distracted inventions,
inept confessions)

over dinner in a japanese
restaurant we discuss
techniques to slip in and

out of the light like moths
and work out plans
to avoid situations

of unnecessary risk—
under our golden waterfall
truth is never an issue

 

EXISTENTIAL PRAYER

in this garden of surprises we
can now stop pretending how,
without caution, we left the path

(all the words you spoke
to me that night with the
lights on illegal as dreams)

we sleepwalk, exercising
our option on monotony,
proudly arraying our indifference

(you think to ask for more—
it makes sense to be
positive about things)

on thanksgiving, all the windows open
a leper, humming audibly
perfects himself with mirrors

(do you remember?
once this man came to my door
afraid to knock!)

I am ordered
to go into my heart
and study its nakedness

(it's the journey that matters
not the desperation
as long as I pay attention)

hold still while I focus; make me
cry out until I understand without
obligation only this moment exists.

 

THE PITCHMAN’S COME-ON

Imagine what life would be like
should I begin to finger
very early every morning
through your dreams

in all their monstrous grace—
your subliminal covert memories
revealed to me by moonlight
bright and naked. Would I then

know them better than my own?
Know you better than myself?
Know just what words to say, just
which patch of skin to stroke

and when, and how (soft? swift?)
If I then tabulated the results: the
long lists of sin you’ve brooded
on with keen earnest yearning;

the falls through seven plagues into
those desolate places that draw
blood as expiation; the flourishing
of merciful thoughts when scars

are shown to be our only certain
souvenirs: all this mind-madness
explained in a moment of clarity that
feels as odd and as true as a

Beckett character—what would
you do? What would you do for
the one who gave you the true
key to decoding your dreams?

 

JUICY MARRIED LADIES, IN DISTRESS, FOR THIRSTY PARTNERS

Extra sunlight for a calm-down goddess—
a hot-headed redhead (more maintenance
but worth it in the end) and now an eponymous
and seriously endearing presence

stored in that everywhere space
(except the room from which solutions come
where I made scrambled eggs and juice
and we stayed lazy, thinking it an Eden.)

I brought much booze and myself, hit or miss.
If I decide to reject this way (seriously, thank you)
the results could be a set-up, dangerous:
even if you don't read this, heed this, fool.

Makes me wonder at the state of my own—
the complaint about her must be posted by 5;
now I won't be able to pick up some
incense in which to wreathe the bonny bonsai.

Damn being! I’ll think on it for now;
how I want a lake right on the walls.
I have more to say, but all this flow
is what the redneck madness fills.

New pictures will be relatively painless;
there isn't much going on this afternoon.
Avalon recedes into its mist;
my redhead lies, fired by the sun.

 

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Copyright © Michael J. Barney