You can’t give presents to a dream
By Nicholas Arthur
I saw you last night in a dream. My teeth were falling into my hands
and you were telling me how to drop a transmission out of a minivan. I listened intently, but couldn’t recall any of it by the time
I woke up.
1.
2.
The coffin lid sticks to and stings the pallbearers’ skin. The sun leers down,
belting out warmth in every mourners’ face. Each word evaporates in the heat. A symphony of car door slams punctuates everything. All the dried cheeks bask in the grace of their air conditioned cars.
3.
Hands plunge into green, red dots spring up angry. The sun stings your skin,
rubbing against a sweaty shirt collar. Still, there’s a feeling of joy when you wipe off your forehead
and step back.
4.
Silhouettes rise up from wet soil. Faint fingers and toes wiggle off dirt clumps as they move upward. No sounds,
but a deep yawn of delayed ecstasy.
There’s a pall and cold sweat. A frantic feeling takes over.
Thoughts stop dead in the fog and you’re frozen stiff. The world feels like it’s rushing by and you can’t catch up.
5.
Sighing deeply into the muck of Sunday. Daylight erodes to a lovely celestial waltz above you. Tossing and
turning until the workweek arrives.
6.
7.
She stares
at her phone in front of a vista of rolling waves, the only one on the beach. She tells her she loves her
as her toes dig deeper into the sand. Her parents call back and there’s a happiness that wasn’t there before. A lightness in her voice as everyone talks around the camp fire.
Silver-y scars wind down her arms under long sleeves. Her Myspace exists in some
form or another. Swooping multi-colored hair, an alliteration pseudonym with a cigarette just in frame.
A self that still lingers, coming out when no one is talking at her.
8.
9.
Vultures pick Taco Bell
out of his guts. The sun is a red blob above. His dreams are scattered
down a vacant highway, settling into the cracks of the road. Lost cars sing his spirit to sleep in a dull
whir from above.
10.
Cars pack into a gun store parking lot. The art supply store
next door is vacant. Some of the record store employees work at the Dollar General. The movie store clerk carries TVs to cars
for customers at Walmart.
I cut up my mouth on jagged, hard candy. The sweetness soon
disappeared and I was left with that familiar metal-y taste. I tried to forget the widening cuts.
11.
12.
Grumble to sleep while your friends shake dead in the streets.
“I’m an institution honey, and love will always come my way.”
13.
I picked out rotting carrots from between my teeth as I passed an
“End of Road Work� sign. The sun leers above. My cheek is now pressed against
a cool shadow on the cement floor. Noise cycles in and out, fading from a whisper to silence.
Forget
like wilted flowers in the trash. Curtains close quickly and you’re hurried off into a darkness of hushed voices. Glasses clink in the
distance, a hand pats your shoulder. You follow the back of the person in front of you toward the exit.
14.
Sitting on his kid’s playscape at 4 a.m., silent apart from the dull hiss of the one-hitter. There are more
gray hairs but “The Taste of Ink” didn’t sound as dated as he thought it might.
15.
16. Meat on a hook
in a dark room. Blood down your chin. A history of theft, a history of violence weighs heavy. A history that won’t go away.
17.
Pin pricks of lime green flash and fade into the pink evening sky. Wet leaves brush against
my cheek; tiny drops of rain speckle my clothes, drying seconds after they land. Cracks roll out between my shoulders
in dull, ecstatic waves.
An unmarked grave is still beneath the tall grass, bathed in moonlight.
Long forgotten, its cross, bearing a name, was stolen by some kids. There’s no racket from above now.
The overgrowth has taken hold and flourishes. The bones in the simple pine box rest easier than ever.
18.
A flowering void of loose teeth
opens wide. Light disappears, fear comes and goes. Everything is slowly
replaced by warmth.
19.
The house near the cemetery reeks of cat piss. It resounds through every sense and stays with you on the drive home.
But you love her and the way she makes you feel like you’re the only one in a room.
20.
Cheeks stuffed with cheap sweets, concrete flashes by my closed eyelids. I’m alone under a street light while they paint gaudy
stars over my head. Wind catches under the leaves. Yellow paint drips down as the hands move furiously. My head’s abuzz and I feel myself lightly fading out.
21.
22.
I woke up drooling on your leather boots. Rain was tapping
gently, it was Christmas Eve. I slipped out quietly into the early morning to finish shopping. I turned my phone off before I started the car.
Tracing my soul
through a glance, you can leave me gutted and alone afterward. Lungs full like dustbins near the end of the week,
a weirdness rattles me and I can’t talk right for days. Into a cold darkness like waves crashing in some remote part of town. I’ll save you
a spot. I’ll hold your hand when you get too crazy for other people. I won’t be far.
23.
24.
Are the moments after you die like trying to find your phone in the dark without your
glasses?
About Nicholas Arthur is 28 years old and currently lives in Michigan. He is a Wayne State University graduate. Along with poetry he dabbles in music and art. When he is not writing he can be found looking in the bargain bin at the record store, drinking coffee far too late at night and eating breakfast any time he pleases. He has a cat named Simba.