Day 9

Yesterday’s curses become today’s everday-isms
yesterday’s verses become todays un-rhymes
The word im searching for has receded into mists.
My God may be a myth, a-miss
My memory’s an impenetrable sieve, holding loosely, letting go
ignoring the advice of .38 special.

There was a dream where i was being chased by thieves,
around the dining room table.
oh that I remember.
the dark wood
the gold carpet
in the corner of the ranch house
by the recently paved road
way up north in the county

Where the gravel drive way
held a blue buick
and a red vw rabbit
and when it snowed the top of the buick became a slide to slide down in a puffy snowsuit
and a miami dolphins hat for some reason.

I had that had for a couple of decades. 1/5 of a century, that same old hat. It came from sears, 1977 or so. I saw it in the wish book.
The little ball of yarn on top came off, and still the hat held on
until one day the hat was gone, vanished, who knows where and who cares.
(Originally it came with a jacket and you could pick any NFL team. I’m not sure why I picked Miami’s orange and aqua. Roger Staubach was a big deal back then though).

So my sieve starts pouring forth little streams of memory, and I put out pots and pans to catch the leaks.

In that dream the thieves were beagle boys in lone ranger masks, and i strained to make it around the dining room table.

The legs of the table culminated in little claws. like the piano stool. little talons clutching balls. that held up a bench for me, or my sister to sit on, and practice what we learned from

Beverly Smith. The piano teacher and church pianist. For a long time she was the best pianist i have ever heard in real life. Plenteous notes came cascading and rushing from her fingers.

Her parents lived with her. Arthur and Thelma. I’d go for my lesson, and I’d sit in the living room awkwardly with them, watching the news. Charlie Gaddy and Adele Arakawa. Once I remember the Challenger exploded over and over while I waited for Beverly to teach me to make the notes shoot out of my fingers. I still remember Arthur’s flat top and Thelma’s perm. They were just plain sweet.

The beagle boys were chasing me around the dining room table but my feet were stuck in cement like a moulage.

Funny how you can never run in a dream, but you can also never be caught.

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