Clock

The Moon seems to have been turned off
like a bedside table lamp
I lay in the darkness
as a little boy
and I peek under the bed
and find the monster to be me
my mind.

I make a sail from my lungs
and from heart an engine
put.. put..put
as I go sailing to the depth of my conscience.

I see new colors in the palette of a lady bug
I see a daisy undressing for me
petal by petal
dew drop by dew drop.

Thump by thump by thump
this drum takes me through this world of frescoes
through this water world inside my head
beyond galaxies
beyond blood and time

I see dogs as plush pillows
sheep as beds
catfish air balloons
and an elephant couch

I chase after the bread butterflies
that Alice described so well
and I run through corn sculptures
till I see her eyes and her naked breasts before me
my muse, in my world
to where only LSD would take me years to come

A place Ginsberg and Thompson know so well
Country you have no passport to
where the sky is shut
like the zipper in a tent
and the lid of a pressure cooker
is placed upon our heads

A land where clocks have handcuffed hands
Where people wear fish bowls instead of helmets
where we can breathe water
where we use finger paintings and kisses
instead of words

Where wars are fought with poems
and maps are tattooed on arms and legs
where it is all seen through a lens
in 35 millimeters

Where Mothers are huge cotton clouds
that surround us and embrace us
like a bullet proof down comforter
and a smile capable of heating the ocean
they do, as a matter of fact

Under my bed, inside my head
a world where our tears become tiny little heart beads
that we give away
at every sigh.