wildbillsdreamscape

August Srindber Meets Mr. Lube

The speedy syrup of Lister Sinclair
and the CBC poured out of the speakers
of my 1988 Ford Escort to flood
the dark blue interior
includng me
with a documenatry
on the life of August Strindberg.
The dark intensity of his passion.
The early drunken days.
The paintings, the women.
Love and hate.
Strumming his intentionally mistuned guitar
in the early days in Paris.
August didn’t mind the snow blanket
being woven around the exterior of my car and I.

We all waited for Mr. Lube to finish off
the Honda Accord, for him to let it escape
and then to lure my Escort and Strindberg and I
into his glass-doored lair.

The nervous breakdown of the Inferno period
coincided with my passing the idiot checklist.
“Lights on.
High beams on.
High beams off.
Lights off.
Turn signals on.
Step on the brakes.”

Ahead of me the glass door
failed to hide the snow
showering across the darkness of early afternoon.
The white pieces thrown by the wind
in a remote flood from right to left.
A blank reminder
that sometimes you can indeed see
which way the wind is blowing.

I watched the lightning dart
way off to the right over the trees and the hills
a few cars followed me through town
I got to the hospital before the rain arrived
but I could smell all the dark wetness
as I walked slowly in

I have no way to go but forward
growing patience and understanding
inventing new games of chance
new spreads of the Tarot cards
and I always say a few Hail Marys
to carry me through to the other side

It’s time for you to stay home
not pop up in my dreamscape

this is your final warning
I know a lot of really rude dragonflies
don’t ask what they are capable of

I  don’t drink Bordeaux anymore
it landed on the list of things you spoiled

we won’t review all my contributions to that list
I am sure you have no recollection at all
to mutter over while stuck in line somewhere

I was wasting some time over coffee the other day
and wrote down all our old code words, our secret, silly
charms against the dark and that damned clock.

the sun is hiding but the fields
are flooding out
throwing away all of the winter
the bare trees are starting
to pay attention to the birds
and the farmer is standing
by the door of his truck
he can see the school bus
all yellow and old rolling up
to his gate – he listens to the ticking
of his truck’s engine as it cools

On Sunday Morning

- William J. Gibson -

I knew a song once about crocodiles

You used to hum it on your bike

When you were ten and told me

about it one morning in bed

Your eyes were blue and I tried

to see you as a little girl who cried

But all I saw was the hot burn of your lips

the tossed gold of your hair

and the black ice

under your eyelashes

- William J. Gibson

38 years

it used to be about addition
now subtraction rules

there was an old pair of shoes to throw away
a ratty pair of slippers wanting to end it all

the cat was lieing on the pile of clean clothes
the sun pouring in the window the lightest honey

birds singing absolutely sincerely in full contact competition
and the waves breaking insistently on the sand and rocks

I had been in swimming and my shoulders were a little tired
and the wind began to chill me down – my legs felt okay

now i stood in the shade of the oak tree
that I planted 38 years ago

making so many generations of squirrels very happy
a screen for the meteor shower of August

the next people who own this place
I hope they choose to cut it down

all of the snow

stares back and smiles at me as I wait for Spring

the five black squirrels feast at the bird feeder

beside the green cedars

the recycling box shines blue at the end of the driveway

I remember now, the bay is that colour in summer

a slow glance up from my bare feet on the sand

after the warm grass

after a lazy nap

love in 10 easy lessons

 - William J. Gibson -

in elementary school on Valentine’s Day

the girls giggled and the boys got red faces

and everyone was energized and shy and bold

and spinning in our seats

was it all fun and good or maybe there was more

I wonder were we scared that we might

not get any little red hearts

would be left out

shame on you, Hallmark

how much love flew round the classroom

scraps of red paper

traces of liking

faces with smiles

eyes hiding worry

waiting for the jokes to land

a life time of love songs and romantic movies

toy trains full of imitative emotion

learned behaviours and valiant attempts

to hide from the disappointments

the boredoms, the ache of breaking, roller coasters

of ecstasy and loathing, kisses and kicks,

little red hearts pieces glued back together

again and again, careful with those scissors

they are very sharp

Valentine’s Day Dream Preview

- William J. Gibson -

you showed up in a dream again

unbidden I swear

may have to wrestle Sigmund to settle that one

I hope you found a way to trust a man

to open your heart to him

and by so doing forgive your father

for drinking himself to death when you were eleven

I don’t know much about much

but I know that when you do your best

and it isn’t good enough

the tournament schedule loses its shine

and all the rainy days make nothing grow

The Snow is too Damned White

- William J. Gibson -

shovelling the snow

is a reminder of the deaths of January

both parents  went in this month

the snow is too damned white

the third and the nineteenth

are the days she died and he died

she four years after him

he walked out in the snow to get the newspaper

after fast shovelling the day before to make a walkway

for the public health nurse

she in the final coma in the hospital

her last words threatening  to punch a nurse in the nose

if she did not go get her husband

the snow is too damned white

to make up for the lack of sun

I am always glad to get out of January alive