inside the dream box

to shed this flesh like pudding become a walking bone jumble frame that folds into a box to breathe in rasping echos while the darkness can't be pierced by scraping hands and find that peace of walls inside of walls an onion adding layers or is that a pearl a scar of gristle shrouding old shrapnel from old nights and encased for decades but now it tunnels out to the surface cracked and bleeding and the unvoiced scream is howling pleading and it makes no sound or disturbance outside these walls and leafy streets where i felt the sun on my left cheek and a breeze upon my back and the squeak of rubber soled shoes and the pinch upon the third toe right foot and the taste of this mornings coffee and last nights cigarette is a metal trace that only fades away with sleep and the point is pointless the purpose the plan the same a reach that clutches air so does it matter in the long run short run it’s all running of one kind or another without punctuation just sweeping like a second hand or planets spinning through the void and isn’t the truth to be found in the pause between the breaths when the motion the swing the pendulum stops? i. don’t. know. so i take my hands away from my eyes and it’s still a morning in july and the datura outside my door smells sweet and the mockingbirds are singing and a voice is faintly heard from a television no content just  the structured voice created in a studio to calm and cheer or horrify depending on what’s needed for the moment or the day. better do some laundry do some thinking do some not thinking find someplace inside a body inside a body inside a body, a kernel, a cocoon, a tearless cheerless peace, a dissolving nap, a dreamless sleep, but i know that isn’t likely or i wouldn’t need to write it, trying to conjure that, to see that impossible landscape which inhabits memory and dreams with sweetness and pain.