Dreams of the Flats
I was dozing.
Dreaming of Cranberry and the Flats. Shallow summer river pools that drag you down. Summer girls, naked running through the dunes, hair on fire in the sun. Glistening and listening bodies motion to the current.
Someone should send me a picture. Lonely here. It was lonelier there but we were stars and never knew any better. Sometimes the wash is gray, floating in and out and the cover is warm. Cranberry Flats and the summer run. We never went there but I dreamed that we did. I dream that we still do.
Hard to be on this side of the line. So many times and seconds have past. Someone should send me some pictures. My memory is tied to a drug that was never really me. It is tied to a history of setting sunshine in a cerebral world. Skewed, cerebral but it was the reality you and I created. DO YOU REMEMBER??
I watch from afar now. I watch over fibre optics, nerves driving tears across the snow. I observe, I pray. I am becoming. What about you? As you watch the train pass you by, what about you? Smoking on a skinny white? This is a 2 -4 one deal. You get the ride and a wave. The smoke are tendrils around eyes, piercing the dark. Cars parked in the lot, bathers nude parade across the prairie sand, coolers of beer and coolers, cooling hot bodies. Dipping in the South Saskatchewan, a lovers embrace of cool muddy.
I know a secret.
Here’s the porter with a fresh bottle of Scotch. Night time rolls on down 2nd Avenue. Don’t miss your cue, it will be too late in the shadows.