Back on Track
for Geoff Gronlund
Running things down, finger-wise on the new keyboard, vertebrae the length of her torso to small of back, so that I’m in keeping with Derrida’s adage that he’d call anyone a poet, even if they didn’t write, should they possess the quick of flesh. Not intellectual ponderance. Desire, not idea. Or rapid activity of dream. Recently a woman kicked up a storm at an altar filled with vestmented men. In awe of the spectacle, in support of her cause, terrifying in a way, I took her by the hand to a secret spot. But a chain link fence prevented us from heading further into nature, woods, riverbank. We had to settle for a dark alley, brightened by desire. The night before, or night after, I wasn’t keeping track, the guy in the dream, he & I, scheduled for a competition similar to Petaluma arm wrestling matches, but suddenly the minor Olympic tenor also changed, fiercely. He turned around as I followed him to the arena, “Let’s fight till someone gives up!” His demeanor bellicose, hair turned red. I said, “No, you’re the kind of guy won’t give up till he’s dead,” & I sure as Hell wasn’t up for that familiar battle all over again.