Nowhere Near Morning” links dreams and physical maladies to a long central poem, “Entering Vermont,” which tells the story of a freak near-death experience, the journey back and the perspective left in its wake. It’s the smallest things which take center stage.
If you are interested in learning more, including reading a couple of the poems, or you are ready to order it in book or e-book form, go to Liquid Light Press.
Here is one poem from the chapbook:
You’ve Reached Dr. Freud’s Answering Service
I’m not sure why I drove all that way
to take a ferry back and forth across the Sound,
but dreams don’t always make sense.
Might be they hold great insights
you’d get no other way but
to summon them from nether regions
of the blanket, they may have fallen
clear to the floor or slipped behind
the headboard, hunting dustbunnies.
Once recalled you can try to interpret them
but take a literal approach
and it might just be your cortex
taking out the garbage, no recycling it all
in those snazzy green barrels
for which the city charges fifty bucks apiece.
Or maybe just toss them out like
old-fashioned trash but now they belong
in those cobalt blue receptacles –
pay as you throw!
You could try to keep paper and pen
by your bedside, wake anyone
who happens to be sharing the mattress
(the dogs snore on) when a new one pops
like a wet spot in that log on the fire.
Next morning your scrawl
would be indecipherable,
like reading a language
with no written form.
When people claim they had a dreamless sleep,
they enter the interstate at seventy mph
in some rural burg, wake up in the suburbs
and wonder how they got there. You know,
like those travelers on New Years’ Eve
who head south on the divided
highway’s northbound lanes
and morning never comes,
just that pale light
when the sun should be ready to rise.